Not Meant To Be
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: When John receives a phone call in the middle of the night, he knows that something has happened to Sherlock, something qualifying as 'not good'. He is, however, not prepared for what has led to his friend's injury and hospitalisation. And he certainly isn't prepared to face the question if Sherlock will ever recover properly from what has happened.
1. Chapter 1

Not Meant To Be

1

* * *

Sherlock's phone chimed as he got out of the cab.

_Heard you took the case. Greg told me. J_

"Keep the change," he told the driver, not bothering to look up from his mobile phone.

_Interested? S_

Turning his coat collar up, his mind providing him with the unnecessary information that John would shoot him a sceptical glare now, he determinedly made his way away from the main road, heading for a smaller alley.

_Yes. Prepared to fill me in? J_

Oh, John was being quick today. Still at home on his own, then. And unemployed.

_Busy. Tomorrow morning. Since Mary__'__s still away, as I take it. S_

Mary. He had assumed her to be a nuisance in his life, despite her being married to John. Had expected her to keep John busy, to end their career as detective and blogger, despite everything John had always assured him of.

Surprisingly enough, and somehow still unprocessable, he had been wrong. He, wrong. For once. Again, John Watson had managed to surprise him.

Of course he spent an unreasonable amount of his time with his wife now, snogging or doing whatever a married couple did. Even now, while just thinking about it, Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust, banning the image of John and Mary exchanging saliva from his mind. Although… maybe he should give it a second thought. An experiment about how the mixing of two person's saliva influenced the… But no, John would definitely call this a bit not good.

_Busy? Investigating? J_

Sherlock allowed his thoughts to wander back while he was typing.

Yes, Mary. Mary Watson neé Morstan. John's Mary. Not offended by him running off, dashing off to solve cases with Sherlock. Not yet. Sherlock was well aware that this would change as soon as they had conceived their first child. Which, going by the amount of times John looked tired and yet excited in the morning, could not take too long.

_Investing. Investing time in the homeless network. Could be helpful. S_

And now Mary, being a teacher of some kind, had left John for two weeks, being away with… Sherlock frowned as he realised that he must have deleted this information right after John had told him. Not important, apparently. Well, with Mary being away, John had far more time, time to spend on cases, and accordingly was eager to spring into action. Even texting him at a time when he normally would be busy with watching some weird … shows or whatever they were on telly, or even worse, with snogging.

_Ah. See you tomorrow, then? 9 o__'__clock, Baker Street? J_

Well, surprisingly enough, John had got the hint. Busy. Not wanting to be disturbed.

_Fine. S_, was all he texted back and then slipped his phone into his coat pocket.

Time to focus on more pressing things now.

It had been a while since he last had been in touch with members of his homeless network, and since it seemed very likely to him that he might need them in the upcoming case, he had decided to fill them in, personally and directly, hiding in the coat of the night. Personally, on his own and as secretly as possible.

The way he had to take to Wiggins's usual hiding place was practically carved into his mind, barely needing any attention at where he was walking. Giving him an opportunity to visit his mind palace for a few minutes, revising everything Lestrade had told him on the phone.

Until shouting entered his concentration. Shouting directly in front of him.

Sherlock couldn't suppress a sigh. He knew that sound, that type of shouting, knew it all too well. Of course. How could he have expected to reach the hiding place without having an encounter with junkies?

Stupid, stupid. Now he would have to put up with them, now he would be bothered.

"Hey, you!" a voice shouted. Mid-twenties, difficult to tell in the dark, had been using for years, most likely started with cocaine and then went on with heroin, at maximum two months away from a deadly overdose.

Sherlock quietly stretched his fingers and simultaneously raised one eyebrow. There were three of them, three junkies, all of them high as a kite.

Seriously. They were no match for him, despite their number, not in their current condition, but they were an obstacle. Costing him time and wasting effort. And bringing themselves into a possibly dangerous situation.

"Listen, I don't have any drugs for you, and you won't be able to mug me. So, could we just drop all pretence and you simply let me through?" he told them calmly, not stopping.

"Listen, he says!" another one shouted. "We're three, he's one, don' you think? Think he's got money. Let's jus' teach him to be more polite, don' you think?"

For god's sakes. Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Did they really think they stood a chance against him? One fleeting look told him that they were hardly able to keep themselves on their feet.

"I warned you," he replied in a low voice.

Futile. And stupid.

The first one bumped into him, his sluggish movements making it difficult to tell if this was a planned assault or rather stumbling uncontrollably.

Sherlock simply evaded him.

"Look who's comin'…" the first one yelled, shaking his fists.

Sherlock felt the one approaching him from behind rather than he actually heard him, his lack of concentration allowing his opponent to throw a fist into his face and send Sherlock stumbling backwards.

Well, maybe he had been a tiny bit overconfident, he realised in split-seconds. John wasn't here, after all, and apparently, one of the three junkies wasn't as dosed up as Sherlock had assumed. Maybe, just maybe, he might be a bit bruised afterwards.

Sherlock just turned around again, concentrating, to knock them down momentarily, when two of them lunged at him, causing him to stumble again and to nearly trip.

No, this was not going well.

Gritting his teeth, he kicked the attacker on the left against his knee, the patella breaking with a cracking noise, causing him to gasp in pain and drop to the concrete.

Sherlock, however, had not seen the third one coming, delivering an uncoordinated but nonetheless painful punch to his ribs.

Then all happened in moments.

Sherlock was bending over, gasping for breath, but succeeding in keeping the puncher away from him.

Until the other one came crashing down against him, using his entire body weight, causing him to stumble again and finally send him tumbling, tumbling over. For a few milliseconds, he could see the concrete and the kerb of the sidewalk coming closer, and then…

Then there was nothing.

* * *

I won't be at home next week, so any update will at least take until next Saturday, if not longer. Just wanted to warn you.


	2. Chapter 2

As promised - Saturday, second chapter.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

2

* * *

John had originally intended to switch off his mobile phone as soon as he went to bed. The fact that he was looking forward to start investigating another case with Sherlock in the morning didn't mean that he was particularly eager to be woken in the middle of the night by a text saying something along the lines of 'how large would a bruise caused by a cricket bat be?'

He realised that he had indeed forgotten to take this measure as soon as he was woken by the sound of his mobile ringing, ringing vehemently and not stopping, although he decided to turn over in bed and ignore it after the first few tacts of his ringtone.

"Go away and ask me in the morning, Sherlock," he mumbled to his pillow. "'m trying to sleep!"

No use. Simply didn't stop.

Sleepily grabbing his phone and distantly noting the reading on the clock - 5.03 am -, he finally managed to accept the call.

"Yeah?" he croaked rather hoarsely, expecting to hear Sherlock's voice, excited and fast as always, telling him something about an unbelievably important piece of evidence he had just found, despite having insisted about six hours earlier that he had _not _startedinvestigating already.

When a forgein voice answered instead, he was alarmed instantly. "John Watson?" the voice asked.

"Yeah," John croaked again, suddenly far more lucid. Calls in the middle of the night were never any good. Never, and most definitely not if he was called by someone he didn't know.

"You're the emergency contact of a certain Sherlock Holmes, is that correct?" the impersonal sounding woman - for a woman it was - wanted to know.

Sherlock.

Out of nowhere, there was a lump in John's throat, making it impossible to breathe. "Yeah," he carked for the third time, the phone beside his ear suddenly trembling. "What…" Clearing his throat did not have any effect at all. "What's happened…"

He barely managed to catch the following words over his own heartbeat drumming painfully loud in his ears. "There was an accident involving your acquaintance and resulting in his hospitalisation. If…"

John's duvet flew away, his entire body shooting up in his bed. "What!" he yelled into the phone, not caring that he had interrupted the woman on the other end of the line. "What happened, is he alright? Is he alright?"

The silence was all he needed. "Oh my god…" He didn't even realised he had formed those words until a few seconds later. "Where is he?" he demanded, already fumbling with his trousers. "Which hospital? I'm on my way."

x

John had never before in his life been so impolite to a cabbie. He noticed his rudeness distantly, yes, yelling at the man to _not _stop at traffic lights and threatening not to pay him and threatening him to do other things…, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Treating a cabbie rudely definitely belonged to the category 'not important' at the moment.

John's guts twisted painfully when he remembered the phone call, and how little information the woman had been able to provide. She had kept talking about an accident, but hadn't elaborated of which kind, and no matter how often he had asked her, she had never known anything about Sherlock's condition. Anything at all. As soon as he had been storming out of Mary's and his flat, attempting to distract himself by trying to find a cab in the early morning, he had ended the call, his head spinning and his insides churning.

It took him less than a minute to get out of the cab, toss a hundred pound note at the driver, together with shouting 'keep it' before dashing off in the direction of the hospital entrance.

Sherlock, he needed to get to Sherlock as fast as possible.

Although the woman on the phone hadn't mentioned it, John knew that it had to be serious. A foreign woman had called him, had called him because he was Sherlock's emergency contact, not because of Sherlock complaining and demanding for John to pick him up and take him home. Unconscious then, most likely. Head injury. Accident.

John's thoughts were swirling in circles, uselessly. He needed to see Sherlock, needed to be there, and only then he could start dealing with what had happened.

Finding the A&E department took more effort, John jogging down several corridors and breathing heavily afterwards.

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes," he breathlessly addressed the first doctor-like looking person he met. "I was told he was brought in after an accident…"

The greying man shook his head. "I'm the wrong one to ask," he told John. "Ask over there, trauma team. Likely to know more. Now excuse me, please."

Trauma.

John's hands clenched into fists as he approached the desk the man had pointed him towards.

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes," he began again, tensing his jaw.

God, Sherlock. He needed to get to Sherlock.

"Are you family?" the woman asked him, typing something on her computer.

Unbidden, an image appeared inside of his head, the image of Sherlock on the sidewalk, after having jumped from a bloody roof top. No fakes this time, John was sure of.

"What?" he asked distractedly, barely succeeding in focusing his gaze on the woman. "Fam… No, no, I'm not. I'm… he's my best friend. I'm his emergency contact, someone phoned me and told me… John Watson."

Did what he had said even make sense? John couldn't be certain.

"Yes, Holmes, Sherlock. Admitted at 4.18 am." She looked up to meet his gaze, and what John saw in her eyes made his heart miss a beat. "He's in surgery."

Surgery. Jesus, surgery. The world started spinning around John, spinning violently. "Surgery…" he repeated dazedly. What for? Jesus, please let him have broken his leg. "Surgery for what injury?" he managed to ask in his best soldierly voice, keeping himself together.

Another sympathetic look that caused his guts to clench agonisingly. "Skull fracture," was the reply he got.

* * *

It would make me happy if you told me what you think!

Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

Wow. Thank you for... well, to sum it up, for reading. And of course reviewing and following and favouriting and... yes, reading.

So, next part. Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

3

* * *

John's hands were numb from having them balled to tight fists all the time. He didn't stop. At least he still had control over his hands, could stop them from shaking.

Control. Control was good. Control kept him from breaking down completely.

He had lost all control over his thoughts and his insides and organs long ago, allowing them to hurt and twist and churn.

He still didn't know what had happened, why he was here, sitting and waiting, why Sherlock was here, somewhere.

All he knew was _skull fracture _and _surgery_. Two words, combined, which had almost sent his entire world crashing down.

It didn't make sense. All of it. "Unconscious upon arrival," the woman had told him earlier, "vitals more or less stable. Hypothermia. Arrived with a young man who seemed to know him and who also had called an ambulance. Stated he found the patient lying in an alley, bleeding and soaking wet, unconscious."

A young man. John's brain simply wouldn't provide him with information who this person could have been.

Investing, Sherlock had texted him. Homeless network.

A young man who seemed to know him. A member of Sherlock's homeless network? But why? Had he been the one to hurt Sherlock? How had his best friend ended up in some alley with his head bashed in?

His head. A shudder ran down John's spine when he remembered the woman's words. Skull fracture. Surgery.

Most skull fractures did not require surgery. Unless…

John's breath hitched in his throat each time he dared to produce this thought. Unless there was some kind of haemorrhage, some kind of bleeding…

Desperate to shut everything out, he hid his face in his hands, unclenching the fists. How many times had he gone through the same circle of thought now? Always ending with bleeding, bleeding in Sherlock's bloody brilliant brain.

It couldn't be. It simply couldn't.

Hypothermia, the woman had told him.

Why, why that? How long had Sherlock been lying where he had been found, how long until help had finally arrived? And what damage had this done to his brain, to his head? What damage had it done to him…

If John had insisted on going with him, on being part of the meeting with the members of the homeless network, maybe this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't be here right now, terrified and too worried to breathe.

Desperately, he rubbed his hands over his eyes. When was the last time he had seen Sherlock, face to face? The day before yesterday, in the evening, talking about the case Lestrade had offered.

The case they had intended to start working on tomorrow, together.

"God, no…" he mumbled, not even fully aware that it was him.

It was taking so long. So long. Too much time without news, without any update on Sherlock's condition.

For all John knew, he could already be-

No. No, this couldn't happen. Not again in the same way.

Forcefully, a picture he had never wanted to think about again shot through his mind. Sherlock on the sidewalk, blood pooling around him, running from his nose and ears and temple. It couldn't happen again.

Funny, actually, if it should. Funny in a terrifying, horrible, sickening, stomach-churning way. God, what was he even thinking about?

"No," he whispered for a second time, trying to convince himself. But what he had learned back in Afghanistan - that you couldn't make fear disappear so easily -, was still true. Unfortunately.

"Sir, are you alright?" a nurse suddenly addressed him, making John flinch.

"Me, what?" It was difficult to shove the picture haunting him aside, to focus on the woman in front of him. "Yeah."

He didn't even realise if the nurse disappeared again, the only one he could see was Sherlock.

Sherlock, his best friend. Who might as well be dying.

Abruptly, John leapt to his feet, rushing to the next public restroom, and vomited into the toilet bowl, ridding his stomach of all its contents.

But not ridding himself of the images.

John had resumed his position in the chair, head resting against the wall, his hands balled to fists once more, when someone approached him.

"Mr Watson?"

John's head shot up. "Yes," he managed, not bothering himself with correcting the man. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was half past nine in the morning. 9 o'clock. The time when Sherlock and he had intended to meet, in their old flat. To investigate together.

"You're waiting for news on Mr Holmes?"

This time, John's voice failed him; all he could muster was a faint nod. Desperately, he attempted to judge the man's expression, his face, the way he held himself, anything, to get any information on how surgery had gone.

Futile.

Instead, he was seeing spots in his vision, spots dancing around the edges of his eyesight.

Just get over with it. Spit it out.

The fear he had felt all the time was suddenly increasing, spiking, the tension in his chest making it impossible for him to breathe. What if he was never going to see Sherlock again? John bit his lip.

"First of all, we were able to complete surgery successfully," the doctor informed him.

It took John a few seconds to actually process the information. Complete. Successfully. Alive. _Alive._

John was grateful that he was already sitting down. Otherwise, he would have crumbled to the floor right in front of the doctor, the relief sending his knees buckling even in his sitting position.

"You're his medical attorney, is that correct? Very well. I would like to explain to you…"

John simply nodded again, not even listening fully, and followed the doctor on weak legs to a small room with one desk and three chairs. Unceremoniously, drained of all energy, he flopped down on one.

And kept thinking solely of Sherlock while the doctor was explaining something to him, something to which John only listened half-heartedly.

As soon as there was a first chance of interrupting after having heard the most important facts, he interjected, barely keeping his voice from trembling. "Can I see him?"

"He's still in a coma," the doctor reminded him.

John's voice was hoarse as he answered. "I don't care."

And finally, he was given the permission.

* * *

Thank you for reading (again), and if you happen to be able to spare some time, kindly leave a review...


	4. Chapter 4

Not Meant to Be

4

* * *

Basilar skull fracture, the doctor had told him. Leading to intracranial haemorrhage and increased pressure on the brain.

Epidural haematoma. Blood collecting inside of the skull, inside of _Sherlock__'__s _skull, putting pressure on his brain.

Pressure. Brain.

Not good.

Surgery had been successful, the doctor had informed John, successful meaning: we cut his skull open and removed the cause for the bleeding, stopped the bleeding.

Although John knew, although he was a doctor, the thought of Sherlock undergoing craniotomy almost made him physically sick. Again. The only thing that kept him from vomiting was the knowledge that he would never be allowed to see Sherlock if he started bringing up bile and spitting it directly onto the doctor's shoes.

Successful, yes, but had it been in time? Nobody seemed to know how long Sherlock had already been lying there, in this alley, his skull almost cracked open, without medical help, without any help at all.

Quite a while, John's intuition told him. Maybe too long.

Possibility of brain damage. Depending on various factors… John had stopped listening, not wanting to know. If any of it was true, there was absolutely nothing they could do now. The doctors had stopped the bleeding and sutured and glued with fibrin sealant, had done what they could. Had saved Sherlock's life, in fact. More than once.

"Unfortunately, your friend coded once, during surgery," had been the doctor's words.

John had almost choked on his own tongue, a feeling of absolute threat overwhelming him.

"It was close for a while, but finally we were able to stop the bleeding, decrease the pressure on his brain and stabilise him."

Touch-and-go, John's brain provided him with. Sherlock's life hanging by a thread.

Still, probably.

Certainly.

He hadn't asked the doctor any questions, hadn't wanted to know anything else, hadn't wanted to hear any details. Not about how many attempts they had needed to restart Sherlock's heart or how large the amount of blood had been or how likely recovery was.

He didn't think he could bear the answers.

"The entire ordeal put quite a strain on his heart, I'm afraid, but of course we will monitor him closely over the next few days. He's sedated and receiving medication now, ant…"

Again, John had stopped listening, not wanting to know how many different types of medication were currently coursing through Sherlock's system, how many different types of medication his body needed to not stop functioning.

He had only wanted to see him.

Comatose, yes, of course, artificial coma, the doctor had told him. Actually seeing Sherlock like that felt entirely different. Even to him, a former army doctor. Maybe especially to him.

As John sat there now, as close to the bed as possible, he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that Sherlock was in fact supposed to be alive. Not the way he was looking.

More like a corpse than anything else.

What had shocked John the most, ironically, hadn't been his pallidness or the coolness of Sherlock's hand in his. No, it had been the raccoon eyes, the dark rings around Sherlock's closed eyes, consisting of blood having swept from the fracture in his skull, accumulating there. Black eyes, basically. Only that in Sherlock's case they were undeniable evidence for his skull fracture.

Biting his lips, John allowed his gaze to wander a tiny bit, to where Sherlock's ears had to be, now covered beneath the giant bandage neatly wrapped around his entire head. His shaved head. In some way, John was thankful for the gauze because seeing Sherlock in hospital, without his hair, might have even been more terrifying than seeing the bandage.

His ears. The same kind of haematoma would be found around his ears, John was sure of that. More evidence of the injury he had sustained.

Basilar skull fracture.

The image of Sherlock lying on the sidewalk, cerebrospinal fluid mixed with blood leaking from his ears and his nose. For god knew how long. Out in the cold, in the drizzle that had gone down in the night.

"God, no," John mumbled hoarsely. He didn't want to think about it anymore. He didn't want to see pictures inside of his head anymore. He didn't want to look at Sherlock, pale and bruised and still as a corpse. At all the tubes and wires around him and the tube in his throat making him breathe.

And yet, he couldn't stop himself. Because looking at all of it, looking at Sherlock and the readings belonging to all the machines and wires and tubes, was the only thing that assured him that his friend was still alive.

His pale, cold, limp hand certainly didn't.

Complications. The doctor had listed possible complications, among them meningitis. The only one John could remember. Meningitis.

"Don't get that," he whispered to Sherlock, stroking his hand - the parts of it not occupied with needles and IVs. "Don't contract meningitis. Don't even think about it."

Think. Another topic John didn't want to think about. Didn't want to think at all.

What if _Sherlock _wouldn't be able to think anymore? What if the damage done to his skull and brain, so brilliant brain, was too much? What if he would never be able to talk to his best friend, to the man he knew his best friend to be?

Sherlock wouldn't come out of this unscathed, something in John told him, the medical part of him. Most likely not, the half of him worrying about his best friend corrected. Nothing was decided yet.

"Time will show…," the doctor had begun, John having heard only the first few words.

Time. Until Sherlock woke. Was allowed to wake. If he would at all. Maybe it had been to much…

No, not if. Of course he would. John's grasp on the cool hand tightened until he assumed to be crushing Sherlock's bones, just as the grip of fear on his heart did.

Time. Time for Sherlock to recover.

John had to force himself to keep in mind that Sherlock wasn't the one to have slipped into a coma, but that it had been the doctors' decision to sedate him, to give him time to stabilise. Yet somehow, it didn't make any difference, not to him. Either way it wasn't guaranteed that he would wake up.

"You're missing the case, you know," he mumbled, reaching out with his shaking right hand. Reaching out to gently touch Sherlock's cheek, white and porcelain and fragile. Just not like Sherlock.

Not being able to stand the cold skin his fingers were stroking, he withdrew his arm, wrapping both his hands around Sherlock's, uselessly trying to warm it up a bit. For his own sake, probably.

And he still didn't even know what had happened. How Sherlock had ended up on some sidewalk with a bashed in head.

John barely bit back a bitter chuckle. Only about twelve hours ago, he had been talking to Mary on the phone, beaming about how they were about to take a new case…

Mary.

John continued sitting next to the bed until he couldn't bear it any longer, and then got up and left the room.

* * *

Thank you for reading (again!) and being supportive in general - I highly appreciate it. And of course, you're highly welcome to leave some feedback.


	5. Chapter 5

We're slowly getting to what was my original inspiration for writing this story... More of John, and more of Mary, simply because it feels wrong to ignore her.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

5

* * *

He had managed to call Mary, having to ring her twice before she even answered her mobile.

Hearing her voice had eased his heart a little, at least until the very moment when she had asked what had happened, why he sounded so croaky.

John had told her.

Mary had dropped her phone, only to pick it up again and ask John too many questions.

"John… shall I come home?" had been her final one. "I would have to tell the children that something has happened, something in my family…"

Family. John had pressed his eyes shut and swallowed dryly. Family. Mary was his family, and Sherlock. Always.

"No," he had nonetheless choked out. "I'm fine, Mary, and… no. I don't… I don't think I will be doing much else than sitting in this bloody hospital for I don't know how long. Just… just enjoy your trip."

"Enjoy?" Mary had echoed, clearly horrified.

And after a few more comforting words, John had hung up, all of his energy having left him.

Now he was back, right in front of the door that would take him to Sherlock, and his left hand was trembling viciously.

He pushed the door half open until he caught his first glimpse of Sherlock, causing his insides to churn once more. There were no words for John to describe how _sick _he looked.

_Unfortunately, he coded once__…_

Alone the thought of what Sherlock's body had gone through in the past few hours, the thought of the strain that must have violated his entire being, made John want to sink down on his knees and simply cry. And take it all away from Sherlock. Make him alright.

Instead, he quietly closed the door again, headed for another public restroom, locked himself in there and wept.

x

He did go back to the room, in fact, after what felt like hours, wiping away the tears from his face and putting on a mask, impenetrable, showing a man in distress and worry, yes, but nothing else.

When he sat down on the chair again, almost hesitatingly reaching out for Sherlock's hand and then gripping it even more tightly, he nearly lost it, nearly couldn't stop the tears from falling once more.

He had been a soldier, yes, and a doctor, but nothing had prepared him for _this_. For his best friend being in critical condition in a hospital bed, and for himself not having the faintest clue what the hell had happened.

That was the worst part, maybe.

"What's happened to you," he whispered slowly, flatly. Resignation. Shock.

He was in shock, probably. Wasn't it funny? Why would he be in shock if his best friend-

Softly rubbing the back of Sherlock's hand, John remembered the call in the middle of the night. How frantic he had been, how panicked, how anxious.

The dread of anxiety was still looming above his head, quietly, waiting, waiting for a moment of weakness. But that was it. No hope, no exasperation, no anger. Not at Sherlock, not at anyone else.

Because he didn't know what had happened.

And it ripped him apart, inwardly. Made him go all numb, numb and frozen.

John swallowed dryly and studied Sherlock for a moment. Motionless, still. So absolutely still.

Sherlock looked the way John felt.

Dead.

x

He couldn't even bring up the energy to feel surprise when Mary suddenly stood outside the room, waving slightly, gesturing for him to come outside, nor could he wonder how much time had passed if she was here already.

Letting go of Sherlock's hand, having warmed it up a tiny bit in the course of the hours, he stood on wobbly legs and made his way towards Mary, his Mary, breathing in her scent as she threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh John," she whispered in his neck, her breaths tingling his skin."I came as fast as possible. What… Is he going to be alright?"

Dark spots were colouring John's vision as he tried to think about a possible answer. "Mary…," was all that came out of his mouth, more an exasperated sigh than a real word.

"John?" she returned, and all of a sudden, he was able to hear to concern in her voice. Concern for him? Why for him? Why not for Sherlock?

Sherlock…

"Sherl…," he mumbled, his knees suddenly giving way beneath him, causing him to stumble against Mary and almost knock her down in the process.

"Oh my god, John!" she yelled, gripping his arms. "John, John, wait, sit down, I'm getting a doctor!"

His head was spinning as she slowly pushed him on a chair to sit. Doctor… he didn't need a doctor, he needed…

He needed to know.

"I'm fine, Mary," he managed. "Really, I'm fine. This, er… it was… Just been sitting for too long, I s'ppose."

She didn't look convinced, of course not. "But…," she began, sitting down next to him, searching for his hand and squeezing it.

"No, really," he insisted, focusing on breathing. In, out. Inhale, exhale. Nothing else. "I'll be fine, really."

Both of them remained silent for a few moments, John staring at his shoes, his old, worn shoes, the only ones he had been able to find in the haste of the night, Mary's gaze locked on him.

He needed to know.

Softly stroking his thumb over Mary's hand, her warm hand, for a few seconds, he finally turned his face to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mary, but there's something I have to do. I have to leave for a few minutes, to do something important."

Her eyes became wide, and for a split-second he dazedly wondered if she assumed that he was intending to kill himself.

"It's fine," he quickly reassured her, his own voice sounding raspy in his ears. "I just need to phone somebody."

x

Mycroft Holmes was, as usually, quick to answer his calls. It took John only two rings until he was greeted by the familiar voice of Sherlock's brother.

"John," he began smoothly as always. "How can I help you? Any news on my brother's condition?"

John's throat narrowed considerably when he heard these first words. "No," he choked out, not even wondering how Mycroft knew or why he wasn't here. "You know what happened?"

He probably imagined to hear the barely perceivable shaking of the voice on the other end of the line. "My brother had a rather unpleasant encounter with a sidewalk, yes, I have heard so," Mycroft replied coolly.

"You saw it?" John hissed between gritted teeth. "There must have been a CCTV camera somewhere near."

The silence on the phone told him all he needed to know.

"I want to see," he demanded, his voice trembling.

"John," Mycroft addressed him almost softly. "I am aware of your deep concern for my brother and your affection, but I assure you that…"

No, John's mind screamed at him, no, you're not! You're not here, you don't know how it feels to-

"I don't care what you want me to do! I want to see what happened to my best friend, you understand? I want to see it! I need to…" John's voice failed him, his outburst leaving him breathing raggedly and his heart beating wildly.

He barely missed Mycroft's short answer due to all his panting.

"Fine. Be prepared to have a car pick you up."

Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, John ended the call.

* * *

Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Next part. Thank you so much for all of your support.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

6

* * *

Mary was still sitting on the same chair as when he had left her.

"Alright?" she asked him softly, getting to her feet and hugging him.

John only nodded curtly.

"John…," she addressed him again, pressing her cheek against his. "I know you're worried, and… and you're terrified and…"

Mary. His Mary. And he had been treating her like… like… For the first time since she had arrived, he relaxed against her touch and hugged her back, holding her tightly. "I'm so sorry, Mary," he whispered. "You shouldn't have interrupted your trip, you know. It's…"

Mary sniffled against his ear. "How couldn't I? I care about him, too, you know."

John hugged her even more firmly.

x

John didn't resume his position close to Sherlock's bed again. Instead, they went to the cafeteria, Mary sitting directly opposite of him, staring at him intently.

"Aren't you supposed to be with him, to… talk to him?" she whispered eventually. John barely managed to swallow dryly. "What about," he mumbled. "He'd laugh at me." And he couldn't, somehow. Talking to Sherlock without Sherlock replying, without a snarky comment? No. Not good.

Mary smiled sadly and bent forward, gently reaching for his hand.

"Mary, I…," John cleared his throat. "I have to leave for a while, soon. Would you… would you stay here and call me as soon as anything happens?"

She didn't ask a single question although she couldn't know where he was going. "Of course," was all she said.

x

Due to his word, Mycroft had sent a car.

Staring out of the window, John felt strangely out of place, as if he wasn't supposed to be here.

Sherlock. Supposed to be with Sherlock.

Resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window, John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

Couldn't help him now. But he needed to _know_.

As soon as John got out of the car, in front of some rather plain looking but nonetheless large building, someone was waiting for him, dressed in a suit, of course, waiting to take him to Mycroft. And John was grateful for that - he was sure he'd never found Sherlock's brother so quickly, and his legs didn't have the energy to do large walks.

"John," Mycroft greeted him, seated behind a giant and dark desk.

"Mycroft," John choked out in reply, hiding his trembling hands behind his back.

"Take a seat," Mycroft invited him, and unceremoniously, John flopped down on the only other chair in the room. Sherlock's brother seemed to scrutinise him for a moment, making John feel even more uncomfortable. "I see," Mycroft stated finally. "The brave army doctor, still determined to find out what happened, no matter if it is of any importance or not. Well then." He pointed to the laptop placed on the desk.

"Yes," John croaked, not paying much attention to Mycroft's harsh words, his hands now balled into fists. Whoever had done this to Sherlock, whoever… they would pay, he swore to himself.

Mycroft gave a sigh, but somehow, for a split-second, John imagined to see worry and… uncertainity behind his stony features. "These scenes were filmed by a security camera positioned on the corner of the street where Sherlock was found, opposite of his location," he explained. "It is rather blurry, but then, I don't think we will need it all too clearly."

John nodded shortly, swallowing dryly. "Just start it," he whispered hoarsely.

"As you wish," Mycroft answered and clicked on 'play'.

x

The scenery was dark, a street lamp sending dim rays of light from the right edge of the screen, illuminating the streets and the sidewalk rather insufficiently.

The clock displayed on the screen read 23.13 pm. Quarter past 11 in the night.

A few minutes after their exchange of texts.

Shouting was the first thing to happen, muffled shouting, without any understandable words.

John's heart performed a rather painful leap as Sherlock walked into the picture, coming from the right side, heading for the left, slowing down in the process.

Now matter how hard he squinted his eyes, John couldn't make out a detail about him, anything at all, the camera having been too far away from the scenery.

"Hey, you!" suddenly someone yelled, clearly directed at Sherlock. At the same time - Sherlock having reached the left edge of the screen now - three more people appeared, looking young and ragged.

"Are they…?" he dared to ask, but Mycroft simply shook his head. "Not now."

Someone was talking in the video, but the words were too quiet to understand them. John's hand grabbed the edge of the desk. Sherlock, Sherlock was the one saying something, Sherlock.

He nearly flinched as another voice shouted: "Listen, he says! We're three, he's one, don' you think?" The voice grew more quiet with each word, causing John to miss the rest. A threat, probably.

Sherlock stood tall, all mysterious with his coat and his collar turned up, John couldn't help to think, dark and independent, whereas the three men seemed to slightly sway on their feet.

"Are they stoned…?" John whispered again, but once more Mycroft interrupted him with a curt shake of his head.

Then it began.

John's finger clenched around the edge of Mycroft's desk as the first man tried to bump into Sherlock, only barely avoiding landing right on his face when Sherlock evaded him with a simple movement.

"Look who's comin'…" another one yelled, raising his fists and shaking them threateningly.

One was approaching Sherlock from behind. From behind, and Sherlock didn't seem to notice, entirely focused on the two men in front of him. Was that how…? He didn't dare to finish his thought.

In a quick movement, Sherlock's head shot around, allowing his attacker to throw a fist in his face, sending him stumbling backwards.

John watched Sherlock regain his balance, turn around again and being jumped at by two of his attackers, making him stumble again, almost trip.

A tiny bit of hope rose in John's heart as he saw Sherlock kick one of the men against the knee, hard enough to send him reeling on the concrete in pain.

"No, watch out!" John shouted and leaned forward when he noticed the third one, coming closer, succeeding in punching Sherlock in the ribs, causing him to bend over and gasp for breath.

And then another one lunged at him, at his right side, crushing Sherlock with his bodily weight. Crushing him until Sherlock hit the kerb of the sidewalk, until both of them were on the concrete.

John's blood was rushing in his ears as he watched the three attackers freeze for a moment. Slowly, very slowly, the one having pushed Sherlock down got up, trembling. Exchanged quick looks with his companions. Slightly kicked Sherlock with the tip of his foot. No reaction. Slowly bent down to Sherlock, hiding him from John's eyes for a few moments. Got up again. Said something to the others, his mouth moving. Kneeled down again, grabbed Sherlock's right shoulder and started shaking. Started shaking someone's shoulder whose head had just crashed against a kerb. John pressed his eyes shut for a second, hoping, praying, that there had been no damage to Sherlock's spine. Stopped shaking him, causing Sherlock's shoulder to slump forward. Looked back to his companions. Looked down at Sherlock again. Shook him once more.

For a few moments, the video seemed to freeze.

Then the one kneeling let go of Sherlock, all of a sudden, and sprang back, yelling at his friends: "Come on, come on, come on, let's go!"

Within split-seconds, the three of them were gone, two supporting the one with the damaged knee, hastily making their way around the corner where they had come from, leaving Sherlock behind.

Sherlock who was lying in the gutter as if an artist had placed him there. On left his side, his head resting on the kerb, his legs stretched out, his left arm twisted rather painfully, halfway hidden beneath his body, his right arm resting limply on the concrete. And his coat, covering him like artificially draped that way.

John was grateful for the darkness, hiding all the blood that must have been there.

Carefully concentrating on breathing, his risked a quick glance at the time. 23.34 pm. Half past eleven.

Hospital had called him at five o'clock in the morning, and the receptionist had told him, as John forced himself to remember, that Sherlock had been admitted about forty-five minutes earlier, at quarter past four.

Half past eleven. Quarter past four.

Four hours and forty-five minutes.

Four hours and forty-five minutes.

It wasn't raining yet, and yet Sherlock had been wet, according to one of the nurses.

Four hours…

John kept staring at the screen, at the time running slowly, without seeing anything.

Four hours and forty-five minutes.

"Is there…," he carked, his voice failing. After he had cleared his throat, he tried again. "What's happening next?"

Mycroft gave him a serious look and then clicked on 'forward'.

Forward.

Nothing was happening next, John realised, not for too much time.

He was sitting shock-still as he continued to watch, never taking his eyes off the prone form being Sherlock.

The night quickly became darker around him, rain starting to fall, softly, drenching everything, but Sherlock never moved.

Twelve o'clock.

One o'clock.

Two o'clock.

Three o'clock.

At quarter past three in the night, Mycroft stopped.

John kept staring at Sherlock, lying there like… like a broken doll or like something simply thrown away, and the thought of it made him want to growl. Made him want to jump up from his chair, rush back to hospital and cradle Sherlock close to him, not caring about all the tubes and wires and everything, and never let anyone else lay a finger on him. Made him sick.

Soon he realised why Mycroft had resumed to watching. Someone was coming, two people, slowly walking on screen, suddenly noticing Sherlock.

Exchanging a quick glance, their heads moving. Approaching the broken body. Grabbing his shoulder, too, shaking him softly, then resting fingers on his neck.

John prayed although he knew that there would be a pulse.

"He's alive!" the one kneeling suddenly yelled. "Call an ambulance, come on!"

A few seconds passed in which of none of them did anything. Then, the one still having his fingers pressed to Sherlock's neck, began frantically searching his coat with one hand, the other one coming to his help.

Looking for Sherlock's mobile, of course.

Successfully. One of them sprang to his feet again, dialling and then pressing the phone to his ear, pacing nervously.

Meanwhile, the other one on the concrete had started slapping Sherlock. "Come on, wake up," he demanded loudly, loudly enough for John to hear. "Sherlock, wake up!"

No reaction.

And yet, they had known him. Homeless network, then.

"Yes, hurry up!" the smaller one just shouted into the phone, then ended the call, crouching down beside his friend. And began tugging at Sherlock's coat.

A shake of the other's head. Removing his own jacket instead, spreading it over Sherlock, urging the other one to do the same. Retaining body heat. Hypothermia. Suddenly, it made perfect sense to John.

Minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly. The two youths just sat there, without their jackets, in the drizzle, two fingers kept reassuringly on Sherlock's throat, other fingers sporadically being held beneath his nose, until the sound of sirens blaring finally was to be heard in the distance.

The ambulance came to a halt on the right edge of the screen, paramedics jumping out, rushing to Sherlock, shooing the two men away, breaking into blurry activity.

And John was simply sitting there, watching what they had done for his best friend hours ago, watching, understanding, and nonetheless feeling numb.

They were moving him, putting a neck brace on him, an oxygen mask which was quickly replaced by an intubation tube being pushed down his throat, a cuff on his arm, probably to measure blood pressure… John simply sat there, watching, until they carefully loaded Sherlock onto a stretcher and wheeled it towards the ambulance, the taller one of the two members of the homeless network following.

The doors at the back of the ambulance closed, the vehicle sped away, the smaller one disappeared, too - only the darkish spot on the sidewalk remained as evidence of what had happened.

x

John took a shaky breath as Mycroft stopped the video and closed the laptop.

"How… how long has it been?" John asked, his voice trembling, his fists clenched.

Mycroft rested his elbows on the desk and his chin on his folded hands. "Up to the arrival of the ambulance or up to the arrival of Sherlock's… employees?"

"Until…" John had to clear his throat. "Until they… until paramedics…"

There were lines forming on Mycroft's forehead which had never been there before. "Four hours and fourteen minutes," he answered, his eyes avoiding John's.

More than four hours of lying in the cold. About five hours of undergoing craniotomy.

John's fist slammed against the desk, bruising his own knuckles.

Mycroft regarded him with something akin to compassion. "Was that what you had wanted to see?" he asked, his eyes narrowing, his voice wavering the slightest bit.

No, John wanted to scream, no, I didn't. Sherlock…

"What I needed to see," he corrected instead, nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

"God, Mycroft…," he then mumbled, letting his head droop and closing his eyes. "More than four hours…" He could feel the tears build in his eyes as he raised his head again, focusing on Mycroft. "Take me back to him. Please."

* * *

Thank you for reading. Always happy about feedback, though.


	7. Chapter 7

Not much to say.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

7

* * *

When he came back late that evening, after Mycroft's driver had dropped him in front of the hospital, nothing had changed; Sherlock was still as pallid and motionless as he had been before. And in that very moment, entering the room again, the pictures taken by the security camera still present in his mind, John couldn't even bring himself to imagine that anything ever would change.

John fell asleep in that night, slumped in the chair, only to be awoken by his own nightmares, nightmares in which he was in the narrow street with Sherlock, Sherlock who was nonetheless lying on the concrete, staring up to John with wide and pale eyes, blood-shot, more blood pouring from his nose, and whispered accusations in a husky voice.

John's feet had gone numb during his unintentional nap, and as he stretched his legs in front of him, he kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock whose eyes didn't open this time and who didn't haul insults at him. John didn't know what was better - the dream or reality.

"We will keep him sedated for at least a few more days," he was informed in the morning by a different doctor than the day before. "No reason to worry, it's simply a measure of precaution."

Precaution.

It did not feel like one, though. To John, witnessing his best friend in an artificial coma rather appeared like the last option available, when everything else had failed.

Four hours. More than four hours.

John had spent the entire night - before and after his nightmares - thinking, worrying, fearing for the worst.

Four hours of time for the blood to collect, for the intracranial pressure to rise and for damage to be caused, irreversible damage, maybe. All of his medical knowledge seemed to have vanished all of a sudden, vapourised into thin air, leaving him clueless and wondering if Sherlock could even survive this.

"Despite the flatline, it could have been worse," the young doctor went on, rambling, while checking the readings on some monitor. Worse? John found it difficult to believe. Worse, yes, in one way: Worse would mean that he was not sitting in a hospital, but rather in a morgue, crying over his best friend's dead body. "Not as much blood as we had expected had accumulated, and finally, we succeeded in stabilising the patient. We…"

John stopped listening, again. What good would it do him to hear that everything could have been much worse, that he should be happy to still have hope left?

"… no signs of infection yet," the doctor ended, causing John to flinch and tighten his grip around Sherlock's hand.

John's throat constricted at the sight of the smile the doctor gave him. "I'm sorry," he carked, "but could you… could you just leave me alone, please?"

Compassionately, the man nodded and left.

Compassion was the last thing John needed.

He did not leave Sherlock's side again.

No matter how often Mary told him to come home, at least for the nights, or to let her continue his mostly silent vigil for a while. No matter how often Mrs Hudson, having been told by Mary, came by and kept clinging to him, begging him to take better care of himself, clearly wanting at least one of her former two tenants to be fine. No matter how often Greg appeared, always quiet and clearly uncomfortable, not knowing what to say, avoiding to look at Sherlock, squirming in his chair. John did not leave.

He couldn't, not after what he had seen. He had abandoned Sherlock once, and he wouldn't do it a second time. And ironically, the only one who never suggested that he should go home, at least for a while, was Mycroft, visiting once in the first three days, instead he only looked at John's hand still entwined with Sherlock's, and nodded.

Nothing changed in the next two days, doctors coming in now and then, talking to John, informing him about 'stable' and 'no more bleeding' and 'swelling has reduced', but again, he couldn't bring himself to listen. Sherlock didn't have to listen to what they were talking, so why should he?

Then there were other doctors, talking about 'reducing amount of sedation' and 'waking up', and hours and days later again, saying words like 'no signs of waking yet' and 'coma'.

John understood although he tried not to, understood that although he wasn't sedated anymore, that he actually was supposed to wake up, Sherlock didn't.

Never did as he was told, of course. Or as he was expected to do.

On the fourth day since the… since it, John suddenly felt as if he couldn't take it anymore.

Sitting next to Sherlock, knowing that this here, this… status of his best friend was no longer intended to help him recover, no longer planned, but a completely unexpected and unpredictable reaction of his body, a reaction to what had happened to him, it was slowly ripping John apart. And it was becoming so difficult to keep on hoping, hoping for his second miracle.

"Give him time," Mary told him softly, her eyes glistening, too, nonetheless trying to encourage him.

Time. How much more time?

"Oh, my poor boy…," Mrs Hudson was sobbing into his shoulder, and John found it didn't help at all.

"I wished… I wished all of this hadn't happened," Greg said. "I…," and then cut himself off, maybe realising how stupid everything he might have wanted to add would have sounded. "And nobody knows what happened?" was his next question.

John simply shook his head, rubbing his tired eyes with his right hand.

He hadn't told anyone, not even Mary. Somehow, it… he couldn't. He couldn't find words for it, and besides, he didn't see any use in it. It had not been a planned attack, not really, an accident. An accident after which they had run away. Run away and left Sherlock. Mycroft would be able to deal with everything.

Should Sherlock… The thought alone was enough to nearly stop John's heart. Should he… should… if he shouldn't recover, then he didn't think the knowledge that they had not done this on purpose to Sherlock would stop him from tearing them to pieces himself.

"How come you had a camera in that very spot," John asked Mycroft flatly while they were sitting next to the bed, both of them drenched in silence.

A thin-lipped smile crossed Mycroft's features as he gently tipped his fingers on his thigh. "I have told you before, John," was his answer. "I worry about my brother, and since I have known this street to be one of his usual meeting places with his… employees…, a camera appeared convenient… years ago." His gaze slowly wandered to Sherlock's face. "I assure you, they will be taken care of."

John had simply nodded, not really paying attention anymore. This wouldn't help Sherlock.

When the doctors removed the original bandage and revealed the wound, the still present swelling, the shaved skin, John turned his eyes away, focusing on Sherlock's hand with the IV line instead. While the doctors were covering his head with another dressing and a sterile gauze cap instead, the IV line suddenly reminded John of other tubes, the urinary catheter, the feeding tube keeping his best friend nutured, the tracheal tube making him breathe.

John's relief when he was finally alone again, able to grip Sherlock's hand once more, was immeasurable.

"Wake up," he whispered, close to tears. "Just wake up, prove them all wrong."

In the nights, when no-one, not even Mary, was there except for him and Sherlock, he kept talking for hours - yes, talking, although he had deemed it ridiculous at first - until his mouth became fuzzy and he needed to leave for a short amount of time, head for a restroom and drink a few sips from the sink.

One should speak to coma patients, it said somewhere in the back of his head, to simply show them that someone was there, that someone cared. And, he figured while clinging to Sherlock's in the meantime warmed up hand, he might want to make up for the time Sherlock had to spend on his own, lying in the gutter.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I'm always happy about feedback.


	8. Chapter 8

A tad late, I know. Apologies.

And now, enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

8

* * *

It took six days since John had received that call for Sherlock to move again.

John was talking again, babbling nonsense Sherlock would normally scowl at and roll his eyes, simply to disturb the silence, to drown out the beeping of the heart monitor and the soft noise of the mechanical ventilator, when he suddenly felt something.

A tickling sensation, right in his hand.

He needed to look twice to be sure that this was Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's fingers twitching and not his own, attempting to deceive him into hoping.

Hurriedly, almost panicked, he pressed the call button, causing a doctor to enter and comment on what John had just witnessed.

"Might be just a reflex…," was what John got to hear first.

A reflex. A subconscious movement, not meaning anything. He didn't want to believe it.

Then there was more twitching, more slight movements in the course of the hours, no noises, of course, due to the ventilator, but shifting muscles, even eyes moving beneath the still closed eyelids.

Determined all of a sudden, shooting Mary, sitting next to him, a weary glance, he pressed the call button again, alerting another doctor.

"Patient shows first signs of possible waking," this one, rather old already, muttered to himself while checking the monitor readings. "No complications so far… Well, well…"

Waking. Waking.

Something John hadn't even deemed possible anymore. Not after having seen the video, and not after having heard the doctors talking for the past few days. Not after having seen Sherlock's shaved head and the wound and the drain to collect fluids and blood, stopping it from accumulating in his skull, when the doctor had changed the bandage, not after having realised that this was _real_. That this was _Sherlock_, in hospital, comatose.

And now the possibilty of waking.

It would take time, John knew, one day, two days, if entirely at all. But at least it was a start.

When Mary approached him, slowly, almost carefully, smiling at him, John looked at her and felt as if he saw her properly for the first time in ages. Ages he had spent in an uncomfortable hospital chair instead of their lovely bed at him. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered, hoping she would understand, his voice breaking.

"Don't be," she told him. "He needs you more than I do at the moment."

When he pulled her close, even letting go of Sherlock's hand, Mary didn't resist his vicious hug but leaned against him, sighing.

"Oh John," she mumbled. "I thought I'd lose you, too."

x

Sherlock _was _going to wake up, that was what John forced himself to believe now. Forced himself, yes. Becaue he still couldn't believe it, in fact. Or didn't know what to believe, rather.

"Oh dear, John, he's going to wake up, and he's going to be fine!" Mrs Hudson chirped almost merrily the next time she came by. "He'll be alright, won't he?" she added more quietly.

John didn't know. No complications, the doctor had said, and so far, it was true. At least if one didn't count 'coma' as complication. No meningitis, no hospital acquired pneumonia, nothing else. Only coma. For more than three days now.

But indeed, the twitching became more frequent, followed by occasional shifting in the bed, by muscles clenching and unclenching uncontrolledly. A start. More than a start, maybe.

Sherlock did never look peaceful, however, frown lines appearing on his forehead, lines of discomfort, clearly. They didn't disappear, no matter what John did, no matter how long he kept talking or how firmly he kept holding Sherlock's hand. There was nothing he could do to help his friend.

Waking up took awfully long. John could basically watch his friend struggle back to consciousness, struggle indeed. And struggle slowly.

Whenever Mary came to visit - both him and Sherlock - and asked if anything had changed, John no longer managed to hide his anxiety. To hide his fear that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock might forever be caught in this weird state between being comatose and awake. He tried not to show it, of course, especially tried not to think about when he was on his own with Sherlock because he knew that, if he did, he would crash completely.

And he found he couldn't afford that. Not yet.

x

When on the eigth day Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter, John almost missed it, missed the slight, unsteady movement.

Almost.

As soon as he noticed, his heart accelerated, he bent forward, gripping Sherlock's hand more tightly, resting his other hand against Sherlock's cheek.

The beeping of the heart monitor sped up, becoming frantic, and John realised that this was definitely wrong.

"Sherlock," he urged while removing his hand from Sherlock's face and fumbling for the call button. "Stay calm, come on, calm. You're alright, you're safe, don't worry…"

And all of a sudden, John found himself staring into grey eyes, still unfocused and barely open, but definitely Sherlock's.

Sherlock.

John's heart clenched painfully as soon as he became aware of the panicked expression in his friend's eyes - and only seconds later heard a sound he had desperately hoped not to hear. The sound of gagging, choking, the sound of the alarm of the ventilator going off.

Sherlock was trying to fight the breathing tube.

"Sherlock, don't!" John told him, his voice breaking. "Stay calm, Sherlock, and let it breathe for you…"

No use. And no doctors available when he needed them most.

"Sherlock…," he whispered, watching helplessly as his friend's fingers kept twitching and his eyes kept staring vacantly, fear showing in them, fear of suffocating.

He allowed the doctor and the nurse, finally, finally entering, to push him away and tell him out of the room.

"We had to sedate him," he was informed minutes later, being allowed back in. "We will have to see if it is safe to extubate him."

He managed to suppress the tears threatening to well up. Barely.

The image of the terrified look in Sherlock's eyes followed him through the night.

x

Weaning started the very next day, slowly decreasing the amount of oxygen Sherlock was being provided with, slowly allowing him to breathe on his own, to get used to breathing again.

And although the renewed sedation was reduced the second day and his eyes opened a sliver ever so often, he never fully came around, never seemed coherent and lucid.

Brain damage, was the only thought John still could produce. Brain damage. Brain damage. Brain damage. Irreversible. Brain damage.

He had lost Sherlock. Lost him. Truly. Forever. To a sidewalk.

In that night, he went home for the first time since it had happened.

* * *

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	9. Chapter 9

Thank you so much for your continued support and feeback. You've got no idea how much it's appreciated, seriously. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

So, next chapter. Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

9

* * *

There had been blackness all around him.

Blackness… a fascinating concept. Was it absence of colour, or was it… was it…

He didn't remember what it was supposed to be.

He didn't remember much at all.

He couldn't feel anything.

No, that wasn't right. Not nothing. There was something, something… a soft touch to his skin, soft and warm and protective.

And constant. It was there, all the time, never leaving, never faltering.

The touch was the only thing he was aware of at the beginning.

Then, eventually, something else was there, too. Something… not a touch, no, something entirely else.

Something humming, vibrating inside him, comforting him.

A voice. Yes, a voice.

Which voice?

A familiar one, he slowly became aware of. A familiar voice telling him things, things which didn't make sense.

"Mary's asked me to come home again," it said. "But I… I can't. Can't leave you alone, can I? Don't know what you'd do if I wasn't here."

Not going. Good.

"…sorry that I wasn't there, that I didn't try to call you again and realised that something was wrong…"

Wrong? What could be wrong?

The blackness was still there, always, omnipresent, consuming him from time to time, silencing the voice and erasing the touch. He didn't like it.

But the voice always came back, or maybe he came back to the voice. He didn't know, and it didn't matter.

"…knows if you're going to wake up, and if you do, if you'll be…"

Nothing made sense anymore.

The blackness didn't, the voice didn't, the touch didn't. He didn't make sense.

He thought so, at least. Or did he?

"…sorry for what I have let happen to you…"

What had happened, in fact? Something, probably, yes, something causing the darkness to appear, but what had it been? There was no knowing of that, not even the faintest idea.

The touch was still there, the touch somewhere. His hand, he realised after eternities, someone was holding his hand. The voice was holding his hand.

But voices couldn't, could they?

Voices having a physical appearance… Interesting concept, something in him registered, but not plausible.

Darkness wasn't plausible either, not the kind of darkness swallowing him. Or threatening to swallow him, if it hadn't been for the voice.

And actually, it didn't even matter if the voice was physical or not or whatever… as long as it was there.

x

It took him a long time to remember that he knew the voice.

"…Mary was here," it was saying, "God, do you even know how awkward it feels to hold you best friend's hand while your wife is sitting next to you?"

No, he didn't. He didn't have a wife, and John…

John.

A name. What name?

"Sherlock?" The voice again. "You just moved your fingers, didn't you? Oh God, Sherlock… Can you do it again? Please, if you hear me…"

John. John was talking to him.

And John wanted him to move, but he couldn't. Sherlock couldn't. Darkness was coming again.

Came and went, in fact, and he was too tired to pay much attention.

Came and went for a long time.

One time, the voice was addressing him, telling him to stay calm and to not worry and that he was safe… but Sherlock couldn't, couldn't stay calm. He was suffocating, couldn't breathe, there was something in his throat, something blocking his airway, and he couldn't breathe… The touch was still there, he registered dazedly, as spots appeared again and he couldn't breathe… and darkness again.

Sometimes, he could see something inmidst the darkness, blurry Johns, light, could hear voices. But never for very long. Never for very long.

xx

The thought that he had lost Sherlock would not go away, not even after a sleeping pill.

Lost.

Sherlock.

Truly.

Desperation. Lost him. After days of still lingering hope. Lost. Gone. Over.

x

Mary held him closely that night, trying to comfort him, and convinced him to go back to the hospital the next morning.

Not all was lost yet, not yet.

Weaning was successful, and by now, Sherlock was breathing almost unassistedly, almost on his own.

The twitching had not ceased either, no full coma like before, not being catatonic. Reflexes were there, too, working, mostly, Sherlock's pupils were constricting whenever one of the doctors shone a light in them, making John want to scream: 'Stop it, you're hurting him!'

The only thing that was still missing was waking up.

John was always there when Sherlock's eyes fluttered, when they opened for a split-second, tried to reassure him, to coax him into making a noise, anything, to tell John that Sherlock understood him.

And yet, whatever happened did not seem to be painless, Sherlock's discomfort always very clearly visible.

John flinched as his breath hitched, when a strange strangled noise came from Sherlock, his eyelids moving again.

"Shh," John soothed, barely listening to what he was saying, far too used to babbling anything by now. Rambling, again. "It's alright, Sherlock, you're fine. You're absolutely fine, and safe. I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here…"

Sherlock's hand in John's tightened a tiny bit, his breathing became strained, but his eyes remained closed.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. Something was different this time, something had changed. Something… Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Open.

"Sherlock!" John urged, barely keeping his emotions out of his voice. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you… can you move your fingers if you hear me? Or blink or… Blink, Sherlock, please. Do it for me, please!"

Nothing happened.

Nothing… John let out the breath he had been holding, let out all hope that had still been there. Brain…

A twitch.

He felt like giggling like a madman when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered again, a weak attempt of blinking.

Sherlock.

This time, he did start crying. "Sherlock…," he whispered, his words badly slurred because of all his tears. "Oh god, Sherlock… Do you know who I am? Could you just… just do it again?"

Again, nothing happened at first, nothing except for Sherlock's shallow breathing and the steady sounds of the heart monitor.

Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock made a choking noise that froze John's very blood in his veins. Attempting to speak, the doctor in John told him. Attempting to speak. Speaking.

"Sherlock…," he whispered hoarsely. "Sherlock, thank you… thank you. You'll be fine, you know that? Fine…"

Sherlock's fingers in John's hand were twitching again, moving slightly, and somehow, probably with the last part of all the strength that still was in him, Sherlock managed to breathe something.

"'hn," was all John heard, but looking into Sherlock's face with the fading marks around his eyes, he was absolutely sure that he had never before perceived such a wonderful sound as Sherlock mumbling the ending of his name.

Because Sherlock had heard him, had been conscious enough to understand him, and alert.

Sherlock had heard him. And had even tried to answer. And had remembered him.

As soon as Sherlock's eyes had closed again, his head lolling to the side and his hand going limp in John's grip, John let his head sink down, rest it on the edge of Sherlock's bed, and wept.

xx

The next time he was consciously aware of the touch, of John's touch to his skin, he felt a lot... clear. He felt clear.

John. John. John. John. Still there.

He wanted to say something, he wanted to make John… He didn't remember, blackness appearing inviting all of a sudden again.

"Shh," John's voice came through. "It's alright, Sherlock, you're fine. You're absolutely fine, and safe. I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here…"

Here, yes. Needed to show…

Needed to do something.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John. John. Something in John's voice…

Suddenly, John appeared in his vision, John staring at him.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you… can you move your fingers if you hear me? Or blink or… Blink, Sherlock, please. Do it for me, please!"

Blink. One single request. So he had to… for John, yes. He would do anything for John, wouldn't he?

But why was it so exhausting? So exhausting… No, Sherlock reminded himself, his eyes had to remain open. For John…

Finally, his fingers obeyed. And his eyelids did, fluttering, attempting to blink. Why everything at the same time? Stupid, probably.

"Sherlock… Oh god, Sherlock… Do you know who I am? Could you just… just do it again?"

There was something odd in John's voice, sounding strangled, and… and… tears. Something wet hit Sherlock, tears.

Didn't he do well enough? Wasn't… Thinking was exhausting, so exhausting. Even breathing was.

But his eyes had to remain open, had to take in the blurry shade that was John, blurry and unclear.

Stupid question, he wanted to say, you're John, John, John…

But he couldn't. Breathing consumed all of his energy, leaving nothing for talking. Producing a noise was all he could manage, but he had to do better. Had to do better for John, John wanted him to. Wasn't allowed to disappoint John.

"Sherlock… Sherlock, thank you… thank you." John again. Pleased? Thanking him, why? "You'll be fine, you know that? Fine…"

It took all of the strength he could muster to move his fingers against the touch and to say John's name. Had to. Not disappointing John.

"'hn," was all that came out, but when he heard laughing, he knew it had been enough.

This time, despite his being exhausted as he was, he did not welcome the blackness.

* * *

John's getting Sherlock back. Or is he?

Thank you for reading.


	10. Chapter 10 Part I

Thank you again for your continued support!

So, here's the next chapter - the first part of it, rather. Second part is about to follow soon.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

10

Part I

* * *

John's eyes didn't stop watering until what felt like an eternity later. Whenever he thought he had composed himself well enough to get up and call Mary, to tell her, to break the news to her, his heart clenched painfully at the thought of letting go of Sherlock, of not being there.

What if he missed it if Sherlock woke again? What if he woke and started to panic? What if he didn't wake, if something happened? If his body gave up, now, after all, after John had started to hope again?

No, no, no. Sherlock had opened his eyes, consciously, had been alert, had recognised John. Had recognised John.

John still couldn't believe it. Had he heard correctly? Had he? Had Sherlock in fact tried to whisper his name? Or had it mostly been John's imagination, his mind playing tricks on him?

When he looked at Sherlock now, dead to the world again, looking sick and tired and simply frail, it was nearly impossible to imagine that he could return to be the best friend John had known, the enigmatic, annoying, brilliant man, simply his best friend.

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, following a sudden urge to say something. Slowly, he reached out a hand, rested it on his neck, feeling his pulse, steady and comforting. "Don't do anything stupid. Going to call Mary now. I'll be back any second."

x

It was the second time that he gave Mary a call like that, John realised as he hurriedly and with shaking fingers, leaning against the wall in the corridor since he did not trust his legs at the moment, dialled her number.

She answered her phone immediately. "John, what's wrong? Something with Sherlock?"

'No,' John wanted to say, 'no', but he couldn't force out a single word.

"John!" Mary demanded. "John, tell me!"

Finally, somehow, hoarsely, probably, he managed to answer Mary's question. "Nothing wrong," he whispered, his voice indeed raw. From crying, maybe. "Mary, it's… Sherlock has woken up, Mary, and… and he seemed to recognise me, and…"

Mary didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. "I'm coming."

x

They sat together until late into the night, until Mary had to leave again, tired and with the knowledge that she had to work the following day. Sherlock's eyes opened a sliver ever so often, but he didn't come to again, was never coherent or awake enough to recognise anybody. John stayed, of course, after Mary had left, tense and still afraid, uncertain, replaying the pictures from the security camera in his head over and over again. Thinking about the incident. Thinking about Sherlock. And thinking about the future.

Eventually, he fell asleep, haunted by dreams of blood and death and kerbs. By the time he jerked awake again, breathless and in cold sweat, his head and his upper body resting on the bed, against Sherlock's waist, his entire body felt sore and stiff, achy all over from having been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair for more then sixteen hours, without as much as getting up, always bent forward to never let go off Sherlock. Transport, a voice in his head said, and for the first time, John felt inclined to agree.

Doctors came in shortly afterwards, informing him that reacting to external stimulants such as touch and voices was a good sign, a very good sign. Patience, they said, time, time, time. Confusion. Confusion after craniotomy and coma, confusion and exhaustion.

John didn't want to imagine Sherlock confused and exhausted, and he didn't want those doctors to see him confused and exhausted. And yet, being a doctor himself, he knew that it would happen inevitably.

They didn't know anything yet, in fact, didn't know if Sherlock could talk, if he could move all of his limbs, if he remembered anything, if he knew who he was, if he had a chance to be alright again.

John was aware of all that, and yet… this was _Sherlock_. His best friend who had come back from death itself. Despite all logic, John hoped to be proven wrong.

"Come on, Sherlock," he told him as soon as they were gone again. "Be alright. Please."

Patience, he forced himself to remember nonetheless, patience.

And patience he needed in fact, to wait for something more to happen while he watched Sherlock sleep, peacefully first, more restless in the afternoon, moving his head and moaning, until he calmed again, calmed enough to lie motionless.

No matter how much time it would take, John determined then, he would be there.

xxx

When Sherlock woke for the next time, again the blurry image of John appeared in front of his face.

"Hey," it was whispering softly, a smile tugging at its lips. "Feeling better? Do you need anything?"

Need anything... Slowly, very slowly, his brain tried to make sense of what he was hearing, tried to understand. What could he need, what should he... Where was he, most importantly.

"Sherlock?" John asked again.

"Mh," was all Sherlock could think of, suddenly becoming aware of something on his face. "Hmm...," he made, trying to lift his hand to the thing.

"Oh, no, no, no, Sherlock," John told him immediately, his form still not entirely clear. "You have to leave this there."

Leave it? Why? Why... Before he could finish the thought, Sherlock nodded off again.

xxx

After John had made sure three times thart Sherlock was in fact still sleeping peacefully and undisturbedly, that he was still fine, he venture to the cafeteria for the first time in what felt like ages and consumed a hasty meal, swallowing without really chewing. Mary would scold him for that, surely, but John didn't care.

Not after Sherlock had come to a second time, his eyes still glazed over and unfocused, but at least able to hear John, to perceive his voice.

"Mh," he had slurred. A noise, not a word, but to John, it had appeared as the reaction to his calling Sherlock's name. Reaction. Reaction was good, very good.

Although he hadn't anwered John's question, hadn't seemed to understand what John told him, had been conscious for about only one minute, John felt… good. Light-headed, somehow.

Because Sherlock had tried to lift his hand, too weak, apparently, had tried to reach out to the oxygen mask, clearly confused, irritated.

Any other doctor might have taken this small gesture as a confirmation of how disorientated patients with traumatic head injuries and brain surgery tended to be, but to John, it was something else. It was _Sherlock_. Something Sherlock would do, would try to get rid of anything irritating as soon as he was able to move again.

He was overrating this incidence, John knew, most likely, and nonetheless he couldn't help it.

Yes, recovery, if at all, would take time, a long time. But it was possible. Hopefully. Sherlock had lost consciousness immediately afterwards, yes, and he seemed fragile like a newborn baby, his arms as thin as twigs.

A very long time.

x

Mary returned and sat on John's lap, seeking his comfort, providing him with hers.

"Are you okay?" she asked him after she had kissed him.

John nodded, breathing in her scent. "I'm fine," he mumbled.

They both knew it was a lie, that he wouldn't be fine as long as Sherlock wasn't, but Mary didn't correct him, and John didn't add anything.

So they just sat there, entwined, Mary asking him questions now and then, watching their friend, studying the pale face with the oxygen mask, the gauze cap, the drip, the thin arms, the dark circles around his eyes. And waited.

xxx

The next time, he didn't even realise that he had woken up.

"...we won't know more until he's coherent enough to answer questions," a familiar voice said. Oh, John.

"It's so horrible, John, and I wished I could... Oh! Sherlock?"

This time, there was a second someone sitting on John's lap, smiling, too. Who...?

"Sherlock," John echoed, bending forward and causing the other person to get up from his lap. A person he was supposed to know... But his brain was too foggy, too thoroughly in disarray as that he could have found a name.

There was something on his face, something threatening to choke him... Had to get it off, had to raise his arm...

"Sherlock, no, don't," John told him, gripping both of his hands. "It's nothing to worry about. Look."

Suddenly, the thing disappeared from his face as did John's hands around his, only to be held directly in front of his face. At the same time, he started to feel funny, as if… as if… he didn't know.

"It's an oxygen mask, Sherlock, and it helps you breathe," John informed him, replacing it over his mouth and nose. And surprisingly enough, it felt good.

What had John said...? Helps you breathe? Breathe?

Oh. Hospital then, he finally figured out. Hospital. And that was why everything was so hazy, so... veiled. Medication, probably. But why... Why... Why was he here?

Frowning and trying hard to remember did not help at all.

"J'n," he attempted instead. "Why?"

John appeared confused for a second, or maybe it was just the blurriness in Sherlock's eyes. "Why it helps you breathe? Or why you need it?" And his voice sounded… different. Not like John.

Oh John, he wanted to say, do please use your brain. Isn't it obvoius what a person in my situation would want to know first?

All that came out was: "J'n... Hosp..." Was his voice that hoarse or was his hearing impaired?

"Sssh, Sherlock, stay calm," John began, clearly hesitating. Clearly? How did he know? Oh, but only thinking about that hurt his head...

"You had an... an accident," John carefully went on, squeezing his hand tightly, "and now you're in hospital. But you're going to be fine."

Quick assurance, it shot through Sherlock's brain, accompanied by a searing flash of pain that made him hiss. Quick meaning... not so fine, then.

And... accident?

"Acc...," he began, unable to continue, to form the words. John had understood him, nonetheless.

"Yes, accident. Don't try to remember it now, just rest a bit more. I'm here, and you'll be fine."

Sherlock's eyes closed on their own account, simply sliding shut.

Accident... He didn't remember any accident. Had it been during a case? And if, how was John... And how long had it been?

"J'n," he mumbled, trying to fight off sleep for another few minutes. "How... Case... You..."

The last thing he heard was the other voice saying: "I know what you're afraid of, but he's Sherlock. Your best friend. He will recover, John. I..."

Sherlock gave in again.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	11. Chapter 10 Part II

Thank you all for your reviews and follows and favourites... it's great, really.

So then, here's Part II. I originally intended to post it yesterday evening, but I found I was too tired back then... so today. I'm sorry for the wait nonetheless.

And now... the curtain rises for John and Sherlock.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

10

Part II

* * *

Sherlock could talk. He could talk.

John had almost started crying again when he had heard a quiet 'why'. Why.

Why.

Hosp.

Acc.

How.

Case.

You.

No proper words, only syllables, but it was enough.

Sherlock could talk, basically, would need time, time and practice, but… But it was a start.

He didn't seem to remember, not what had happened, not what John had told him the last time he had been awake. But then, John couldn't expect too much.

Time, he reminded himself, time. Sherlock would need time.

He had appeared more coherent, understanding, seemingly, what John had tried to explain to him, although his final words, slurred in a state of near-unconsciousness again, hadn't made sense, at least not to John.

"Is he in pain?" Mary mumbled slowly, back on John's lap. "He looked so… so…"

Pain. Frowning, hissing. "Headache, probably," he replied. "Although I doubt he could tell us where he's hurting if we asked him."

Mary placed a gentle kiss on his temple. "Don't underestimate him," she whispered. "You know that he said 'hosp' before you had even mentioned hospital?"

John simply stared at her with wide eyes.

x

One and a half hours later he was in the cafeteria again, on his own, Mary still being with Sherlock.

He was waiting, waiting for someone he needed to talk to.

The two members of Sherlock's homeless network who had found him, found him and called an ambulance.

Mary had been the one to remind him of them again, asking about what had happened. Of course John hadn't told her, his throat narrowing all of a sudden, but had instead asked her to stay while he was calling Mycroft who could surely find out where they lived - if one could call it 'live'.

"John," Mycroft had greeted him, sounding as impersonal as ever. "What can I do for you? Do you want to tell me to visit my brother?"

"He's woken," John had croaked out hoarsely.

"I am aware, yes. So, what favour would you like to ask from me?"

Rubbing his tired eyes, John had finally answered: "I'd like to meet the two guys who found him, to thank them. Find them, and ask them to meet me… er… at the hospital."

At the hospital because he didn't want to be too far away from Sherlock.

"Please?" he had added, not caring about appearances anymore.

"I'll do my best," Mycroft had answered, solemn all of a sudden, and had, surprisingly enough, added: "Take care of my brother."

x

Only one of them came, in the end, the one who had climbed into the ambulance.

"Wiggins," he greeted John.

"Uhm… hi," John responded awkwardly, not knowing what to say. "So you're… you're part of Sherlock's network?" he asked after having bought the young man - twenty-five, at the most - a cup of coffee.

"His homeless network, yeah."

Sod it, John told himself and bluntly fired away: "Listen, I wanted to see you because… because I wanted to thank you for what you've done, that you've found Sherlock and called an ambulance and accompanied him to the hospital, and… yeah."

Wiggins - John doubted that this was his real name, probably just a nickname he found useful on the streets - studied him with a serious expression in his eyes for a moment. Then he smiled, making him look years younger all of a sudden. "No problem," he told John. "I only did what everybody would have done."

John cleared his throat. "Yes, but…" It was still difficult to talk about that, even now. "But if you had passed by later, an hour or two or three, it might have been too late. For…" He had to clear his throat once more, his voice failing him. "For Sherlock, I mean. He could have been…"

The stern look returned. "He's always been kind to people like… people like me." He laughed bitterly. "I'm glad he's alive."

John found himself nodding. "And I wanted to tell you that he's woken up… yesterday. Or the day before yesterday." Funny how blurred the past days appeared in his mind.

This time, Wiggins grinned. "I know," he said. "It's been in the news."

The news? John almost choked on his coffee. "News?" he repeated, shocked.

"Yeah, you've made it to almost every front page in the past two weeks," Wiggins explained. "'Mysterious accident', 'Blogger without his Detective now?', 'Robin left alone', 'Will the Super-Sleuth be incapacitated forever?' And so on… You know the papers. They like to write."

"Oh… yeah," John concluded. Blogger without his Detective now. Nope. Not good. "The news…"

"Vultures," Wiggins said all of a sudden.

John's head shot up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Vultures," the young man repeated. "They're vultures. Those invesitgative journalists, I mean. Exploiting your and Sherlock's weakness."

John found he still couldn't believe it. "What… what did they write? Anything true?"

Wiggins simply shrugged his thin shoulders. "Don't think so. Stuff about an overdose and attempted murder. I mean, I don't know what happened to Sherlock, but I don't think that's true." He gazed at John in a lurking way. "Is it?"

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest, staring out of the window. The junkies approaching Sherlock, starting a fight… "No," he finally answered. "None of it."

Wiggins was sensitive enough not to press John any further, and John was thankful for that. "Well," he said after a few minutes, shoving his chair back. "I'd better get going. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. Give my regards to Sherlock and tell him to get well soon."

John studied Wiggins for a few seconds and suddenly wondered when and how he and Sherlock had met, and how such an intelligent young man, most likely from a well-off family, had ended up living on the streets. For a second, a split second, John couldn't help the thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock once hadn't been too different from Wiggins. Maybe. Following an impulse, he suggested something he normally wouldn't even take into consideration: "Would you like to see him?"

Wiggins hesitated only a short moment before nodding.

x

After Wiggins had left - calm, but looking a tiny bit shaken -, John decided he had another call to make, that he had to ring Mycroft again.

"I want you to never show him the video," were his greeting words to Sherlock's older brother. "Whatever happens, if he remembers, if he doesn't, and if he asks about what caused his head injury, don't show him. No matter what."

"John…" Mycroft sounded hesistant for once.

"No," John cut him off. "Don't ever show him. It… I can't explain it, Mycroft," he admitted, feeling like ripping out his hair. "I don't know how much… how much his injury has affected him, if he'll ever be the same, and knowing what happened to him, that he was lying there for five hours… I don't want him to be burdened with that."

Mycroft was silent for a few minutes, minutes in which John could only hear his own strained breathing.

"Alright," he finally said. "I will not say anything."

"Swear it to me," John demanded.

Mycroft sighed, but did as John asked. "I swear. As long as you deem it important."

"Thank you," John choked out and ended the call.

x

This night, he slept in his chair again, not comfortable, but at least with Sherlock who woke once in the night and started babbling nonsense, absolute nonsense. It would have made John smile if the situation hadn't been that serious.

In the morning, he was woken by the sound of someone entering, a doctor, and coincidentally, Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter while the man was still there. Time to find some answers, John realised. Time to face the truth.

xxx

Waking up seemed something he did quite frequently. Usually in John's presence. This time, there was another man he didn't know and didn't observe anything about. Why didn't he...

"Mr Holmes?" The foreign man addressed him. "Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?"

Something on his face... When he thought about lifting his hand, he remembered something, hazily, but at least he remembered. John telling him... not to touch the thing on his face. So he didn't.

"Sherlock," John said in this very moment. "It is important that you answer his question, yes?"

Question... Oh. His name. A silly question considering that the man had addressed him with his name... But if John insisted...

"Sh'r..." Unfortunately, his vocal chords wouldn't comply.

Suddenly, there was a cup in front of him, a cup with a straw and a hand prying the mask away, gesturing him to drink.

He did. And it felt good. "Sherl..." He tried again, not being able to pronounce his own name. "Sh..." Not working. Why wasn't it, why couldn't he, why... "John!" He choked out, close to a panic.

But John was there. "It's alright, Sherlock, you did fine. Seriously, yes. Just relax, alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, pressed them shut, avoiding John's gaze. Until John said: "You can open your eyes again. He's gone."

He, meaning the other man. "Who...," Sherlock mumbled.

"Your doctor," was John's immediate reply. "He just wanted to check if you're OK."

But you are my doctor, Sherlock wanted to say, protestingly. "Why... why can't I..." he muttered instead.

"Why your speech is a bit off?" John concluded. Clever John. Cleverer than he always gave his friend credit for. "Don't worry, it's just a side-effect of the medication you're receiving. And you've been out for quite a while, it's only natural that your throat is terribly raw and talking hurts. It'll pass, I'm sure of it."

Sure of it. Emphasising. So not sure at all.

"J'hn," he mumbled, hands putting the mask back on his face. "What... happen..."

Although his eyes were closed and he battled sleep once again, he noticed how John hesitated. "Not now, Sherlock. Just concentrate on getting better now, yes? That's all that matters."

But no, John, his mind was saying, not allowing his mouth to participate. How am I supposed to recover if I don't know from what?

"Do you need anything?" John added. "Something against the headache?"

Headache, Sherlock mused. Why was he supposed to have a headache... Oh. Head injury, then. Head injury...

"John?" He mumbled again, admittedly tired. "How... long?"

For a moment, he thought John wouldn't answer this question either. "Too long, Sherlock," he then said. "Fourteen days."

Headache. Indeed, a soft throbbing in his skull, soft because of... because of medication. And fourteen days... Why didn't he remember those fourteen days? He remembered yesterday, or at least he assumed it had been yesterday, but... Unless... Oh, his mind was getting faster. Unless... coma? "J'n," he tried again, bone-crushingly tired now.

"Ssh," John's voice whispered from the distance. "Sleep."

And he did.

* * *

Thank you for reading.

Next part, though, might take a few days.


	12. Chapter 11

I am terribly sorry for the wait. Really.

So now.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

11

* * *

John leaned back in his chair as soon as Sherlock's body had slackened again.

He didn't know what to think.

Should he be happy, or should he be desperate? Or both?

Sherlock hadn't been able to pronounce his own name, but then, he did seem to remember it.

He had called for John, sounding close to panicked, and he had asked questions, but John couldn't tell if he remembered anything.

And he had wanted to know how long.

Fourteen days. It had indeed been fourteen days since the night John had received that call.

And nobody knew how much longer it would take.

x

"Are you sure it's alright?" Mrs Hudson asked him at least for the third time now as he led her down the corridor.

John hid his worry behind a smile and nodded. "He won't mind," he promised. Sherlock wouldn't, probably - because he still was too exhausted, sleeping too much to register fully what was going on around him.

"But it's only been four days…," Mrs Hudson began again.

Four days since Sherlock had woken. A few minutes of coherence. Today hadn't been a good day, so far. "It's fine, Mrs H," John repeated. "But… just don't worry if he appears… not like himself."

He managed to avoid the sad look on Mrs Hudson's face since they had reached the room. "Mary's here, too," he said before opening the door.

Minutes later, they were all settled - Mary on one side of the bed, Mrs Hudson on the other, John pacing.

"Oh, my poor boy," he heard Mrs Hudson whisper eventually, her voice sounding… choked.

John exchanged a swift glance with Mary who shrugged her shoulders. "It's… er," he began, approaching Mrs Hudson and resting a hand on her shoulder. "He's just sleeping, it's… fine." I think, he added in his thoughts. Although he knew, actually, although it was logical, although it was the only reasonable explanation, John found it difficult nonetheless to look at Sherlock and keep in mind that he was in fact just sleeping. For many hours, but sleeping. Resting. Peacefully. Regaining strength. Hopefully.

Mrs Hudson was still there when a nurse came in, carrying a tray. "Lunch," she announced. "Something light. He's allowed to eat."

Food. Solid food. Well, soup. But food. Sherlock was allowed to ingest food again. And able to.

"Thank you," John told the nurse and placed the tray on the nightstand.

Doing his best to ignore both Mary's and Mrs Hudson's watchful glances, he sat down on the edge of the bed and softly started shaking Sherlock's shoulder.

No reaction.

John took to gently cupping his hollow cheeks, and finally, Sherlock's eyes flickered open.

"J'n?" he breathed into the oxygen mask, sounding confused. Again.

"It's fine, Sherlock," John hurried to reassure him. For a moment, he didn't know how to continue. "Look, you've got another visitor," he then added, gesturing towards Mrs Hudson.

There was no spark of recognition in Sherlock's glassy eyes. "Mh," he only made, exhaling slowly.

John swallowed dryly.

"Mrs Hudson wanted to visit you," Mary raised her voice, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "She claims she's just your landlady, but she worries about you nonetheless."

His Mary. So clever. Telling Sherlock everything he needed to know without letting Mrs Hudson know that he apparently didn't remember her.

"Sherlock," John addressed his friend again as Sherlock's eyes started to slide close. "Do you think you can sit up a bit? A nurse has brought lunch. Soup."

This time, they didn't leave Sherlock a chance, Mary and John carefully helping him to sit upright, stuffing pillows behind his back and removing the oxygen mask. Then John took Mary's seat, balancing the tray on his knees.

His hand was trembling ever so slightly when he took the spoon and dipped it into the soup.

"J'n," Sherlock whispered quietly. "Don' want to…"

John's heart clenched painfully. "Don't worry," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "You will feel better soon."

Sherlock swallowed the first spoon without any complaints. After the second one, he pressed his eyes shut, and after the fifth one he had turned chalk white.

"John…," Mary began carefully, but John had already stopped. "Alright," he said, setting the tray aside. "Alright. That's enough for today. You did fine, Sherlock, seriously."

John was too slow when Sherlock started coughing first and then retching, throwing up the five spoons of soup.

All that could be heard was Sherlock's laboured panting and John cursing under his breath.

"Mary, get a nurse, please," he asked his wife while he was holding Sherlock in an awkward embrace, to keep him from collapsing into the sick. "To change the sheets. And Mrs Hudson… maybe you should leave. I'm sorry, Mrs H, but…"

Mrs Hudson sniffled quietly. "It's fine, dear," she sobbed and hid her face behind a tissue. "'s fine… I'll come back later."

John's throat was raw as he kept cradling Sherlock and waited for Mary and a nurse to return.

xxx

He was dreaming. Dreaming of the kind old lady.

He knew her face… he knew her name. Of course he did. John had told him.

Johnjohnjohnjohn…

He was dreaming. Dreaming of the kind old lady. Dreaming of… Mrs Hudson. His landlady, not his housekeeper.

Not his housekeeper.

He had done something bad, he knew it. She would be angry with him. John would be angry with him. She would be angry with him as she had been when he had shot her wall… or when he had… when…

Mrs Hudson. His landlady. And John's… no, not anymore. Because John was… John was…

There were voices around him, talking, and another touch to his skin. For a moment he didn't know if it was John, or if it was Mrs Hudson, bringing him tea or breakfast or…

John, he determined and at the same time remembered that he was asleep, in fact.

"Greg, I'm sorry…," John's voice said.

Suddenly, Sherlock was dreaming of a man named Greg. He didn't know the man, didn't know his face, didn't know his voice which was slowly afterwards saying something. Unimportant. John.

"I know you're a DI, Greg, but I seriously don't know who…"

DI. DI. DI… Detective… Detective…

He knew someone. Le..: Sounding French. Weird name. He knew it, he knew it…

His dream changed again, the unknown Greg being replaced by a familiar man, a… police officer, a DI. Les… Even in his dream it was difficult to reach the correct room in his mind palace. Le… Lestrade. A… friend.

John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. John and… John's wife. Mary. John.

Content with his results for now, Sherlock's sleep became dreamless again.

xxx

John had been insistent. When Sherlock woke again and appeared coherent enough to answer questions, he would ask him, would try to find out how much he remembered, if he remembered at all. Not some foreign doctor. Not with Sherlock.

He had been insistent, yes, but now that it seemed as if the time had come, his heart was beating wildly in his chest.

"Sherlock," he addressed his friend as softly as possible. "I need you to listen to me for a few minutes. Can you do this?"

Sherlock frowned a tiny bit and moaned in response.

John held his breath. A stupid question, probably, but he had to ask again. "Sherlock," he began gently. "Do you know who I am?"

Sherlock's fingers in his grip twitched. "John," he breathed.

John.

"That's it, Sherlock, yes," John reassured him quickly. "And can you tell me your name?"

His eyes didn't open. "Sh'rl'ck Holm…," he mumbled into the oxygen mask, his eyesbrows moving slightly.

John's heart calmed a tiny bit. Much better than two days ago. Much better. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Very well. You're doing really well."

And now… "Sherlock," he asked again. "Where do you live?"

The frown deepened, and Sherlock gave something frighteningly close to a whimper. "Mrs…," was the muffled reply. "Huds… 22..."

Sod it, John thought and tightened his grip even more. "221B Baker Street, yes," he finished, blinking quickly.

What else? It hurt John to keep pestering Sherlock when all he wanted to do was to let his best friend rest a bit longer. Was it his imagination or had Sherlock turned a shade paler in those minutes John had been asking him questions?

"We're almost through," he muttered despite the lump in his throat. "Do you remember anything else? About you? About what you're doing? Anything at all?"

Sherlock didn't say anything for a few minutes, time in which John was inclined to hold his breath. Finally, he cracked his eyes open a tiny bit, directing them, still glazed over, at John. All of sudden, John felt like being thrown back in time, days earlier when Sherlock, in an absolute panic, had stared at him with vacant eyes.

No.

"Pink," Sherlock whispered.

John's heart performed a sudden leap. "Pink," he repeated. "What about pink? Do you know more?"

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut. His dark lashes against his stark white skin made the dark smudges beneath his eyes only appear more prominent.

"Pink… la…dy," he mumbled. "Case… you blog… and I… cons… con… help," he ended feebly.

Slowly, a smile was spreading on John's face. "You're doing great, Sherlock, really great," he encouraged his best friend. "Now…"

"Di'n't see you… for two years," Sherlock went on, a pained expression on his face. "Friends… friends protect…"

The beeping of the heart monitor sped up and caused John to grit his teeth. "Alright, Sherlock, alright. Stay calm. I'm here. I'm here, OK?"

"Mhm," Sherlock made hoarsely, taking deep breaths.

John pressed his eyes shut for a moment, wanting it to be done, all of this. "What is the last thing you remember?"

When Sherlock remained silent at first, John wondered if maybe the question had been too complicated, if he should word it differently…

"Last…," Sherlock then whispered, sounding terribly exhausted. "'s… I…" He started coughing, but didn't stop trying to talk. "Pa… pas… noo… dles…"

Noodles. An evening almost three weeks ago when John and Mary had invited Sherlock - and insisted on his coming - for diner, Mary cooking pasta.

Three weeks ago.

"Anything else?" he wanted to know, softly stroking Sherlock's hand. Stupid question, he scolded himself only seconds later. Stupid questions, all of them. How could Sherlock know if it was really the last thing he remembered? How could he know what had happened when, what… A gap of about two weeks had to be present at least, the time he had spent comatose or half-awake, and everything in his mind was probably utterly confusing.

"Never mind, Sherlock. I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm so sorry. I know you're confused and achy and sore all over, and tired, and nonetheless I start bothering you with all those questions. It's… I'm sorry."

Sherlock weakly shifted his head, frown lines appearing on his brow. "J'hn," he slurred, but somehow, it was enough. Enough to make John smile again.

xxx

Sherlock wasn't even sure if he was asleep. His eyes were closed, but it was bright nonetheless, and John wasn't there.

Dream, he decided since he could still feel John's touch.

In his dream, everything was… muddled. His brain.

How could he be here all of a sudden?

John had asked him, and nonetheless Sherlock didn't understand. How could he have ended up here after they had had diner?

But no, John… John had said accident. What accident? Concerning pasta?

He didn't understand, and he didn't like the feeling.

John sounded… not like John whenever he spoke. Or much like John, but not like happy John. John was… scared. And… and… worried. That was the word. Worried.

Worried why? Sherlock still didn't know.

John sounded more… more not like John whenever Sherlock didn't understand something. Whenever he failed to answer John's questions. Sherlock didn't like it.

Do better, his brain told him.

I can't, Sherlock wanted to reply, to defend himself.

"Ssh, it's alright, just a dream…"

John. Wasn't allowed to disappoint John. Had to do better.

Remember… remember… Not working.

Beeping came to his ears, fast beeping. And John's voice, talking. Not happy John.

Difficult, he decided, so difficult… to change…

John's voice was the last thing he heard.

* * *

Thank you for reading! A tiny comment about what you thought would be appreciated.


	13. Chapter 12

Another rather lenghty wait, I know. I'm sorry.

I was so excited about all the positive feedback I was receiving after the last chapter, so... just thank you. Really. I mean it.

As a kind of reward - next part.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

12

* * *

That night, John didn't have any nightmares.

He didn't have any nightmares because he didn't find any sleep.

He would have preferred the nightmares.

x

Sherlock's sleep was dreamless and still for the first hours after John had tried to question him, had pestered him with questions. Dreamless and hopefully restful.

John had almost nodded off by the time Sherlock started shifting weakly, turning his head from one side to the other, his fingers twitching, his brow furrowed. John watched for a few seconds, watched Sherlock's eyes move beneath the lids, heard him moan and whimper.

A dream. A nightmare.

Firmly, he squeezed Sherlock's right hand of which he had never let go. "Ssh, it's alright, just a dream…," he whispered soothingly, doing his best to remain calm. Calm. Calm was what Sherlock needed now.

"Just a dream…," he repeated, stroking Sherlock's hand, attempting to give him something to hold on to.

It did work, eventually. Sherlock kept thrashing for a few more minutes, the beeping of the heart monitor accelerated, his breaths in the oxygen mask became quick and strained. His eyes didn't open, his fingers didn't grip John's, but finally, his movements became slower and more sluggish until he stilled, the frown nonetheless present.

John didn't take his eyes off his friend, didn't even think about trying to fall asleep himself, to get a bit of rest. Instead, he watched Sherlock, watched the readings on the monitors that told him that his heart rate wasn't back to normal yet, that his blood pressure was still lower than supposed to be, even lower than the days before, heard his fast breathing.

It didn't take long until Sherlock stirred again, moaning, tossing weakly.

John's heart clenched painfully as he rested his free left hand on Sherlock's face, cupping his cheek slightly. A feeble, a hesitant attempt to wake him.

"Sherlock," he whispered softly, "You're dreaming, just a dream, I'm here, you're fine… I'm here, OK? Wake up. Wake up now."

Without any success. John left both of his hands where they were, suddenly becoming aware of the very not normal temperature of Sherlock's skin.

His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and for a moment, he wasn't able to think straight or act.

Hot skin. Fever.

He didn't hesitate before he pressed the call button.

x

"We will have to do a few tests," the doctor told him about fifteen minutes later. "We won't be sure until we've got the results, but…"

John of course didn't miss how the doctor hesitated while he kept clinging to Sherlock's limp hand.

"… I'm afraid that the symptoms he's showing seem to match those of bacterial meningitis."

John couldn't breathe.

"The sudden fever, tachycardia and low blood pressure, decreased level of consciousness…"

Decreased level of consciousness. John felt like collapsing.

The doctor had tried to wake Sherlock, had tried to talk to him, but Sherlock hadn't reacted to his name, hadn't reacted to being slapped in the face. Hadn't reacted to anything at all, at first, until finally his eyelids had started fluttering and opened, causing him to flinch and close them again as soon as the light of the doctor's torch had shone into his eyes.

Sensibility towards light.

The doctor had asked him two questions, in fact, had asked him for his name and if he could describe how he felt.

"J'n," had been Sherlock's muffled reply, his heart rate speeding up even more. "Hea'ach', J'n…"

Headache. Another symptom for meningitis.

No.

No.

Not Sherlock. No.

"I… will he… is it… It's early enough, isn't it?" John managed to choke out, barely able to swallow. "He'll… you'll be able to do something, to treat it, right?"

Almost compassionately, the doctor nodded. "We'll start him on cefotaxime and amipicillin immediately, even before we're going to do further testing. A blood test, and a CT scan. It is…"

John could simply stare at Sherlock's hand, lying on the duvet, still tightly enwrapped in John's grip, but so… so lifeless. "I'm a doctor," he forced himself to say. "Tell me. His chances?"

"We don't know if we're dealing with meningitis," the doctor interjected quickly. "It could…"

"Yes, but if?" John cut him off, raising his voice. "If it is? What are his chances?"

The doctor gave him a long, stern look. "In his condition? About 40 to 50 % with immediate treatment, probably. If it is meningitis. I'm sorry."

40 to 50 %.

He paused for a moment, a moment in which nothing except for the beeping of the heart monitor and John's pained gasping could be heard.

"A nurse will draw the blood samples," he then announced. "I'll organise a CT scan for him."

John didn't even realise that the doctor left, leaving him alone with Sherlock.

The possibility of meningitis. Bacterial meningitis. A survival chance of 40 to 50 %. With the right treatment. With the right…

No.

What if it had taken too long? What if it was too late already? What if all of this was simply too much for Sherlock's body, what if he simply gave in? What if he didn't make…

No.

x

Five minutes later, John was still fighting with the absolute terror that had started to possess him, was still battling the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

Losing Sherlock. Losing him.

No.

The doctor had returned already, had injected ampicillin and cefotaxime intravenously, had began treatment. The nurse had been here, drawing a blood sample and disappearing again, smiling at John compassionately.

Alone having to listen to Sherlock's ragged and fast breathing made John want to vomit.

"CT scan in twenty minutes," the doctor stormed in again and informed him, together with a nurse.

John could only watch as the doctor and the nurse started wheeling the bed away, together with all the machines and the drip and… and Sherlock.

John simlpy followed them.

x

Another ten minutes later he found himself in a cold room, together with the bed and the equipment and Sherlock, waiting for the CT scan. Twenty minutes, the doctor had said. Meaning ten were still left.

Ten minutes seemed far too long.

Because Sherlock looked as if he didn't have ten minutes. As if he didn't even have five minutes.

He had started tossing again, uncontrollably, clenching and unclenching muscles, moving around in his bed. His breathing… John certainly didn't like the way his still too fast breathing sounded, as if it took a too large effort. Each time Sherlock drew in a shaky and wheezing breath, John had to stop himself from flinching. But then, breathing was breathing.

Sherlock shivered every few minutes, chills shaking his body while he was otherwise burning up, his skin boiling hot to John's touch.

His heart rate had calmed in the meantime, changing to a much slower, almost too slow rhythm, doing nothing to ease John's worry.

When Sherlock's slightly yellowish skin started to exhibit tiny red spots, littering his cheeks and forehead and arms, and John noticed a certain redness around his fingernails, his utter fear turned into anxiety, and when his heart rate dropped even further and his nose started to bleed all of a sudden, John panicked.

"Doctor Stevens!" he shouted, letting go of Sherlock's hand and gripping his head instead, turning his face to the right side, ripping off the oxygen mask. "Help! Doctor, anyone!"

In the seconds it took the doctor to reenter and assess the situation, together with a nurse, John had lifted Sherlock's upper body, letting his head sag forward, to keep him from inhaling and choking on his own blood.

"Help," was all that came out of his mouth, his throat too narrow to breathe properly.

"Leave," the doctor told him.

Everything in John wanted to oppose. "No," he whispered, staring at Sherlock. "No, I can't…"

"Sir, you have to," the nurse said softly while the doctor was focusing on Sherlock. "Atropine," he ordered.

Atropine.

"No," John mumbled, his vision blurring, allowing the nurse to shove him out of the room. "No…"

x

It was more than half an hour before John, pacing up and down, pacing with his leg sending jabs of pain through his nerves with each step, got any news, and it was more than two hours before he was allowed to see Sherlock again.

See Sherlock.

"Allergic reaction to cefotaxime," the doctor had told him. "We needed atropine to stabilise him, but we've got it under control now. We've decided on another antibiotic, and now we're going to do the CT scan."

John's pacing had not stopped in the one and a half hours that had followed.

Allergic reaction. Atropine.

What if it was meningitis, what had the switch of antibiotics done to reduce chances of survival? Why had Sherlock reacted allergic to the medication? What if there was going to be a second allergic reaction? How severe had it been? Bordering on anaphylactic shock?

He didn't know, and it drove him mad.

When the doctor appeared for the second time and after John had finally realised what his words - "the scan was fine, nothing abnormal to see - meningitis is very unlikely" - meant, he felt like collapsing. "Can I see him?" was his first question, and to his relief, the doctor nodded.

x

John still didn't like the way Sherlock looked, or the way he was lying in the hospital bed. He almost could see last traces of his nosebleed beneath the oxygen mask, could still see the angry red dots on his still yellowish skin.

Suspected meningitis.

Treatment with antibiotics.

Allergic reaction to the antibiotics.

Atropine.

CT scan.

Suspicion not confirmed.

No meningitis.

Not meningitis. John had had to sit down, his knees buckling from relief.

But a severe allergic reaction, severe enough for Sherlock to need atropine.

And symptoms, similar to those of bacterial meningitis, without any apparent reason.

When John risked a glance on his watch again, it read 4 o'clock in the morning. 4 o'clock. He had been worrying for… for… too long.

Worried was not even the expression. He had been… frightened to death.

Losing Sherlock.

He couldn't lose Sherlock. He wouldn't… he wouldn't get over that, as stupid as it might sound. He couldn't. Not again. Not like that. Not… no. Not Sherlock.

"You have to get better," he whispered, stroking Sherlock's hand softly. Sherlock's hand, feeling warm, but no longer so shockingly hot. "You have to, Sherlock, please… You… don't leave me, alright? Just… don't. Sherlock, please."

x

He felt like a dead man walking in the morning, stiff and sore, his head pounding, his stomach still clenched in fear. He felt old.

Old and drained.

And Sherlock, though stable, officially and apparently, still didn't look better. Although he had woken, looking at John with bleary eyes, his lips trembling, forming a weak smile. "J'hn," he had mumbled, frowning. "You… here. Good."

"Normal," John was assured by a doctor when Sherlock lost consciousness again, but it did nothing to reassure him.

When Greg came by in the early morning, wanting to visit Sherlock, John told him off, almost rudely, asking him to come back again… tomorrow. Or even later. Because Sherlock was… wasn't well enough.

He gave Mary a call while she was at work, probably sounding that confused and anxious and negative that she rushed to hospital immediately, practically shouting at him to tell her what had happened.

"Nothing," John only replied. "Bad night, that's all."

Bad night.

Of course she didn't believe him.

When he left the room, still ICU, Mary still at Sherlock's side, to take a quick shower and try to get rid of the horror of the night, he decided he would have preferred any nightmare. Because nightmares weren't true. Weren't real. Because one would always wake up from a nightmare.

John didn't wake up.

* * *

Thank you for reading!


	14. Chapter 13

I'm seriously fascinated by all those kind reviews and by people taking the time for reading what I'm writing. I know I'm repeating myself, but it _does_ mean a lot. So, thank you!

And now, as always, enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

13

* * *

It didn't feel like John. It felt… different. Different.

Not John.

"Sherlock?"

The voice wasn't John's either. John… The last time he remembered, John had still been here.

Slowly, he dared to blink his eyes open, meeting other ones, but not John's. Not John… Mary.

He felt… not good. Tired. Everything hurt. And cold. And no John.

"J…," he began, interrupting himself to breathe. "Where… J'n…"

Mary squeezed his hand. "John is taking a shower, Sherlock, he will be back soon. He…"

What?

"John…," he made again, more understandable this time. And more urgent. "Where…"

"It's OK, Sherlock," he heard Mary again. "He'll come back, I promise. It's OK, it's fine…"

No, it wasn't. Not without John. Where had he gone, and why hadn't he told Sherlock? He didn't understand.

"J'n…," he whispered again, allowing his eyes to close.

If John wasn't here, then there was no reason to be awake.

xxx

John didn't feel refreshed after his shower. Really not. The full impact of his worry was crashing down on him again as soon as he entered Sherlock's room, as soon as he resumed his position in a chair next to bed, and exchanged a quick glance with Mary.

"He woke for a bit," she told him quietly, looking down at their friend. "Asked for you. He sounded…" She drew a deep breath. "He sounded panicked, and… and confused, and when I tried to explain to him that you weren't gone, that you would come back, that all was fine… I don't think he understood."

John remained silent at first, tempted to curse himself for giving in to the urge to take a shower. "And then?" he finally asked.

Mary shrugged. "He went back to sleep, I think. Or…"

Or lost consciousness, was what she had hesitated to say.

John rubbed his stinging eyes. "And still nobody knows the reason for his symptoms," he concluded bitterly.

Mary reached over and grabbed his hand, too. "Maybe…," she suggested carefully. "You said he was dreaming, maybe… maybe he was having a nightmare, and what you witnessed was some kind of… panic attack. Anxiety attack." She hesitated for a moment. "It just… It would seem possible, to me. He's always calmer when you're here."

But I was, John wanted to say, but didn't, in the end. Because maybe, Mary was right. And because if she was right, there was an explanation, a kind of, and what had happened yesterday evening would no longer be a herald of nearing death.

"Maybe," he simply replied.

x

"...and so, Mr Holmes, after your basilar skull fracture - which caused intracranial haemorrhage, bleeding in your brain," the doctor announced, his tone close to imprudent, talking about something that didn't seem too important right now, "which we had to stop surgically, but we were able to mend the damage and indeed stop the blood flow. As I said, after..."

John bit back a sigh and concentrated on Sherlock rather than on the doctor. Sherlock who was supposed to listen but looked as if he could hardly keep his eyes open, lest alone follow a complicated and rather frightening explanation containing lots of medical expressions. Not a problem for Sherlock, normally, but right now, after that night and in his condition and after having been woken rather rudely by the doctor... John honestly wasn't sure how much Sherlock actually understood, not even now, five days after he had woken up.

"…you started to show symptoms yesterday which closely resembled those of bacterial meningitis, so…" The doctor went on, not paying particular attention to Sherlock.

"…both the CT scan and the blood tests proved that it was not meningitis, however…"

As the doctor continued his speech, John watched Sherlock's eyelids droop with worry. It might have been amusing, once, seeing Sherlock nod off due to tedium, but right now, the only thing John could think about was that Sherlock was too… too… was too weak, too sick, to remain conscious for prolonged periods of time.

Particularly not after the last night.

His vitals were almost back to normal, heart rate still a bit high, blood pressure still low, but the fever was gone entirely, as was his difficulty with breathing.

Not meningitis. What then?

Nobody had a plausible explanation for the sudden appearance - and disappearance - of symptoms, not physically, at least. Mary's suggestion was still ghosting around in John's head, even now, more than two hours after she had left.

"…no serious complications, so far," the doctor's voice pulled John back into reality all of a sudden, not noticing that Sherlock had fallen asleep.

No serious complications. It was true, from a medical professional's point of view, no pneumonia, no ending up in vegetative state, no meningitis, just false alarm.

Not serious complications. It sounded so fine, so encouraging, but to John, it felt different. Maybe it was simply because the last night had left him shaken, had left him wondering what would have happened if they hadn't noticed the allergic reaction in time, what if…

Sherlock wasn't in immediate danger, yes, but he was far from fine. So far from fine.

Alright, as some doctor had put it. Alright. John still grimaced at the thought of this choice of phrasing. Clearly not.

Alright normally didn't entail difficulty talking, the words not coming out of Sherlock's mouth the way he had intended them to, and it didn't entail difficulty coordinating one's movements, moving at all. And alright wasn't Sherlock tiring so very easily, being awake for only a short amount of time.

Alright.

Time, John was told again, time. And: "Nothing physiotherapy and a speech therapist can't fix." And although John was likely to agree as a doctor, it still did nothing to ease his worry.

Then there were the headaches, having grown more prominent the third day, causing Sherlock to whimper now and then, and even in his sleep, leaving him restless then and tossing. Likely to subside, too, eventually, the doctors had said. And if they didn't... Well, pain medication. Medication Sherlock was now receiving anyway, to ease his headache.

"…unfortunately, you developed an allergic reaction to one of the antibiotics which led to…," the doctor's voice reached John's ears again.

Allergic reaction, yes. A so far unknown allergy to cefotaxime, causing a variety of symptoms which would have, untreated, led to an anaphylactic shock, as John was well aware of although nobody had had the guts to tell him. Sherlock did seem better now, the next day, asking Mary for John and John for something to drink after Mary had left and, surprisingly enough, for Mrs Hudson during the two times he had been awake, and repeating John's name over and over again. Awake, but never for very long, appearing terribly exhausted. Exhaustion, confusion, weakness.

Time, he reminded himself once more. Time.

Time and no further intricacies.

x

The doctor had left hours ago when Sherlock slowly came to again, not entirely coherent and still dazed.

"J'n?" was the first thing he whispered, causing John to squeeze his hand.

"I'm here," he replied softly. "You've got another visitor, Sherlock," he told his friend quietly.

Sherlock's eyes flickered open for a second. "Mol…," he began, not finishing.

Molly, sitting opposite of John, clearly feeling uncomfortable, tried a shy smile. "Er… hi. John… John and Mary told me about what happened… er… last night," she ended lamely, clutching her handbag. "So I thought… best to stop by again."

"John…," Sherlock mumbled, frowning. "Mol… ly, where… whe 's J'hn?"

John tightened his grip, shooting Molly an excusing glance. "I'm here, Sherlock. Right here."

"Mh," Sherlock made, inhaling faintly.

Molly bit her lip. "Maybe I should give you…"

"Molly?" Sherlock mumbled in the same instant. "You here… nice…"

John had to bite back a smile when he saw her blushing. "Oh, er… thanks," she finally settled on, not letting go of her handbag. "Is… he's still half asleep, isn't he?" she whispered, staring at John.

John found he could only nod. "Think so," he answered quietly. "Last night was… hard." Raising his voice a bit, he addressed Sherlock again: "We're here, Sherlock. Try to sleep, hm?"

Sherlock's fingers twitched, his eyelids flickered. "John," he muttered, sounding a tiny bit more awake. "Mh… don'… feel…think… feel funny…"

"Ssh," was all John could think about.

x

Feel funny. Next time, he should take Sherlock's words more serious.

Although 'funny' wasn't exactly the word John would have used.

He had been worried before, anxious, scared, terrified.

But what really shocked him now, after Sherlock had woken up, after the last night, was the first seizure. Seizure. Symptoms of unknown origin first, then an allergic reaction to medication, now a seizure. He had, of course, seen people seize before, had even treated them, but seeing it happen to Sherlock in a hospital bed had been... frightening.

Sherlock was awake when it happened, long after Molly had left again, trying to ask John something. "J'n, where…," he began, then, abruptly, cut himself off, an utterly confused expression on his face for a split second before his eyes rolled back into his skull and he started thrashing in his bed. Close to a panic again, remembering the last night, John's hand immediately fumbled for the call button and pressed it, after a moment of absolute terror trying to shield Sherlock's already far too battered head, to stop him from injuring himself further.

One minute and three seconds later, everything was over, Sherlock slumping all of a sudden and lying limp.

The doctor who had arrived taped a plaster to the back of his hand where he had managed to rip out the IV needle, set up a new line and injected something, John missing what it was because he still was too… too shocked. Again. And unbelieving.

Seizure. Medication, again. Without an allergic reaction, hopefully. Hopefully. John would have prayed to every single god he knew of if he had believed that it was of any use.

Sherlock woke hours later, in the middle of the night, terribly confused and incoherent, not having the faintest idea of what had happened.

It broke John's heart, witnessing Sherlock like that, simply… lost.

"J'n," he kept repeating over and over. "J'n… what… J'n…"

"Shh," John told him each time. "Ssh. You're fine. I'm here. Just sleep."

When Sherlock did, not being able to force his body and mind to remain alert, John let out a sigh he had been holding, allowed his head to sag and himself to blink the tears away.

Seizure.

He knew that seizures - or even epilepsy - were, if not common, then not unlikely after serious head injuries such as Sherlock's, and nonetheless hoped with all his heart that this was going ot remain a single occurrence.

Luck for once.

It was the second night in a row John spent in agitation, unable to sleep, worrying to no end.

* * *

Thank you for reading! As always, you're welcome to leave some feedback.

Oh, and for those who worry: Don't get too desperate, there will be rays of sunshine!


	15. Chapter 14

First of all: Thank you again! You're amazing! And you tend to distract me from the long wait for series 3...

Since I'm not too busy at the moment, another chapter yet (I'm rather pleased with that one, I have to admit...)

Enjoy, hopefully.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

14

* * *

Tests were done the next morning, another CT scan and MRI, with Sherlock - thankfully, as John couldn't help but had to think - oblivious throughout the process, thanks to a light sedative, but without helpful results. No second brain bleed, no tumour, no other abnormalities. No apparent reason for the seizure. As there still wasn't one for the symptoms having caused the doctor to suspect meningitis.

Headache, exhaustion, temporary memory loss, difficulty speaking and coordinating movements, one seizure. Not a great outcome, but infinitely better than meningitis or any other possible infection. Not fatal, but with chances of improval.

John was there when Sherlock slowly came round from the sedation, when his eyes opened again, when he weakly attempted to grip John's hand.

"Mhm," was the first thing he said. John knew Sherlock was going to throw up before he did so, giving him the chance to lift his upper body, almost violently turning his head to the side while Sherlock vomited bile onto the floor.

As soon as the retching ceased, being replaced by slight coughing, John readjusted the oxygen prongs - having taken the place of the mask in the morning - and the tube from the nasal cannula and finally rested Sherlock back on the pillows.

"S'ry," he slurred, barely understandable.

"Ssh," John made, grabbing a glass of water from the nightstand. "It's not your fault. Your body's reacting to the anaesthetic. Take a sip of the water and rinse your mouth. Don't swallow."

Carefully, very carefully, he lifted Sherlock's head a bit, supporting his neck, not wanting to hurt his head any further, and helped him drink. "And now spit it out," he said after a few seconds, offering the glass again, Sherlock's head still slightly elevated. "Aim for the glass, but it doesn't matter if you miss."

As soon as Sherlock had got rid of the water, half of it landing on the floor, his neck muscles slackened in John's grip, causing John to quickly ease him down again.

"It's fine," John attempted to reassure him. "Try to sleep a bit longer. I'll be here."

x

The full realisation of how frail Sherlock had become hit John hours later, crashing over the first relief that Sherlock had regained consciousness and that he had recognised John. It hit him when Lestrade stopped by for a visit, insistent this time, not allowing John to send him away again.

"You look like shit," Greg told him, John, upon entering. "Sleeping?" He nodded towards Sherlock in the bed, all slack and limp and pale and indeed sleeping.

"Yes," John confirmed exhaustedly, putting the magazine aside he hadn't been reading in anyway. "Finished the case?" He gestured towards the bag Greg was carrying and the folders peeking out. The case. The case he and Sherlock had intended to investigate before... before...

"Yeah," Greg replied, still looking at Sherlock. "You sure I shouldn't leave again? He just appears as if he needed his sleep."

John wearily shook his head. "We won't wake him if we're just talking normally. It's rather hard to raise him if one of the doctors wants to talk to him, and if it works, he'll nod off soon afterwards."

Still reluctant, Lestrade finally took a seat. "He still doesn't remember?"

John sighed tentatively and automatically pulled the duvet covering Sherlock up a bit. "No," he said flatly.

A curse escaped Greg while John simply kept watching Sherlock. "Then we still don't know who did this to him. Any idea, John? Anyone he might have pissed off in the past weeks, any cases he might have refused..." He broke off.

"No," John simply repeated. "Sorry, Greg. I don't know." He hadn't told Greg. He hadn't told him what Mycroft had shown him, what had in fact happened, that it had not been a controlled attack, just... bad luck. Some drug addicts, craving for more, in search of money, and Sherlock, alone, crossing their path, not willing to be mugged, but outnumbered and in the end losing. And ending up on the sidewalk. An accident, truly. As much as John had longed to lay his hands on the three youths while he had watched the CCTV recording, he now didn't care anymore. Not really. Sherlock was far more important, his recovery, his well-being, and since it had happened already, John tried to think as little as possible about it.

"We'll find him, John," Greg promised nonetheless, rather stupidly. "You know Sherlock, he will remember something, eventually, and we'll find the bastard."

"Mhm," John only made non-committally, allowing silence to spread.

Minutes later, Lestrade didn't seem able to stand the silence any longer. "When he's... when he's up to it, I can bring some cold case files, to keep him busy. One call, John, and I'll..."

"It's fine, Greg, really," John hurried to assure him. "Thank you, really, but... I think he'll need time."

Greg nodded seriously and fell silent again.

"You think..." He cleared his throat. "You think he'll mind that... that I'm here and watching him sleep?"

John turned his gaze back to Sherlock, his closed eyes with the dark smudges beneath them - last remnants of the bruising -, his cracked lips and the oxygen prongs in his nose. "I'm not sure he'll wake before you have to leave again," he mumbled. "Just back from work, aren't you?"

Greg nodded. "He's always sleeping that much?" he wanted to know.

"Hm," John replied, reaching out and rearranging Sherlock's left hand, looking a tiny bit twisted in its current position, on the duvet.

"But he... he's going to be alright?" Lestrade asked.

Thinking about everything he knew, about the sudden appearance of symptoms, about everything that still wasn't back to normal, John didn't know what to respond. Thankfully, a soft moan from the bed spared him the duty of giving an answer.

"Sherlock?" he inquired, leaning forward.

Another groan was the reaction he got, followed by eyes opening seconds later, still dazed from sleep.

"J'hn," he mumbled, lifting his right hand halfway to his face. "L'strade."

Lestrade. Recognition. Even after two horrible nights. John breathed out.

"Sherlock, hey," their friend replied as casually as possible. "Napped long enough now, have you?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but let his eyes flutter shut again.

Quickly, John reached out for the glass on the nightstand, grabbing it with his right hand and elevating Sherlock's head with his left one. "Here, drink," he told his friend. Sherlock took two small sips, then his neck muscles relaxed and he would have collapsed back on the pillow if it hadn't been for John's hand holding him. For John's hand touching surprisingly warm skin. Frowning, John eased his head back down on the pillow. "You're a bit warm," he muttered, talking to no-one in particular.

"Hm?" Greg wanted to know, looking up.

John simply shook his head, his gaze still lingering on Sherlock. "Nothing," he replied. Warm. Temperature. Warm. Fever. Again. He would have to pay attention to it, keep an eye on it. At the same time, he inwardly started begging Sherlock not to have caught something.

"What're'ye doin' here?" Sherlock addressed Greg croakily.

Greg awkwardly patted his hand for a moment. "Here to see you, of course. Needed to see how our favourite Consulting Detective's doing. Got tons of cases for you when you're back on your feet."

Sherlock attempted something akin to a smile. "Mhm," he made.

John watched as his eyes sluggishly darted across the room, remaining on Greg's bag for a moment. "Why... bag?" he asked huskily. "Why're ... you wearing... suit?"

Lestrade's smile seemed to become strained. "I've come here straight from work," he answered patiently. "Got some case files I need to take a second look at."

"Hm," was Sherlock's only reaction, his eyes closing again.

Greg left fifteen minutes later when Sherlock nodded off once more.

And only when the door had closed behind him, John dared to admit to himself how much was really wrong with Sherlock. Until this very moment, even after those two nights, he somehow… maybe he had still assumed that once Sherlock had woken up, everything would be the same after a few days, everything would be fine again. Because Sherlock was Sherlock.

Of course he had known that it would take time, everybody had told him so, he had known it as a doctor, and yet… hearing and knowing it and understanding it were two entirely different things.

And there was a very real chance that Sherlock might never be the same again.

Not the same.

And it was OK. As long as Sherlock did recover, it was OK.

"Oh Sherlock," John found himself mumbling, stroking Sherlock's disconcertingly warm hand. "Why did this have to happen to you, of all people? Why you?"

Yes, why Sherlock? Why had it been the very moment when Sherlock had walked that street somewhere that those junkies had appeared there, craving for the next hit? And why did he have to hit his head, why not his wrist or shoulder or ankle? And why did it have to be hours until somebody had found him?

Sherlock simply hadn't meant to be left for dead in some narrow alley. He hadn't meant to be broken, his skull hadn't meant to be, and he most definitely wasn't meant to be here now, in hospital, not doing much else than sleeping and resting. Doing boring things.

And yet, it had happened. And John would be there to pick up the pieces.

* * *

So... what do you say? I hope you liked it, and thank you for reading!


	16. Chapter 15

Next part. You might have noticed, I do have loads of free time at the moment!

Thank you again for your continued support! I hope you will like that one.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

15

* * *

Sherlock woke because of the silence.

Silence… no beeping. Beeping… why beeping… He remembered it, but now it was… gone.

He didn't know. No beeping, no talking.

When his eyes opened a sliver, he saw walls, walls moving… moving. Walls couldn't…

John. John couldn't… where was…

He forced his eyes fully open, saw nothing but walls and the ceiling. Moving. He was moving.

Until it stopped.

"Sherlock?"

John's face. He felt as if he hadn't seen John's face in ages. John… He felt… tired. And hot. So hot.

And no beeping.

"Dead… am… I?" was the first thing that came both to his mind and out of his mouth. No beeping. Beeping was good, and now…

John's face was still replacing the ceiling. "De… what? No, Sherlock, no," he said, resting his hand on Sherlock's face. "You're a bit sick, but it's nothing to worry about. You're going to be OK. We're just… we're just moving to a new room, OK? Don't worry, it's all fine. Just… close your eyes and I'll tell you when we're there. What about that, hm?"

Close your eyes. Again. Making John disappear.

"J'hn…," he slurred, his eyes not doing what he wanted. Closed, indeed. "Beeping…"

"Ssh," John told him. "It's gone, I know. You don't need the heart monitor any longer, OK? You're fine."

Fine…

"Hm," he made.

John's voice accompanied the moving and shifting.

John. Frightened John. Frightened.

"'m s'ry, John…," he mumbled, desperately trying to hold on. Hold on to John, but go back to sleep. He decided he didn't want to see the new room now.

x

Sherlock wasn't willing to open his eyes. John kept talking to him, demanding for him to wake up, to talk to someone, to answer questions… but Sherlock didn't want to.

"Mh," he groaned as John started slapping him gently.

"Sherlock?" John inquired, stopping, resting his hand on Sherlock's face. "Are you awake?"

Awake? Unfortunately. His head… Opening his eyes a sliver definitely wasn't a good idea, so he immediately let them slide shut again.

"Mh," he made again, painfully aware of his sore throat.

John's hand disappeared, his wonderfully cool hand, and suddenly, Sherlock felt a lot more uncomfortable. "Hm," he mumbled, frowning. His head…

Sherlock relaxed when he felt John grab his hand again, allowing his head to loll to the side. Sleep…

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I know you're tired and you want to sleep, but…"

John's voice suddenly disappeared, only to be back seconds later. "Sherlock? Do you hear me, Sherlock?"

He wanted to nod, but his head wouldn't comply. The simple thought of moving it increased his headache. "Mhm," he repeated instead, becoming more and more aware of how dull his intelligible answers sounded. And yet, he didn't find the energy to do more than this.

"Sherlock, a doctor will come soon and draw a bit of blood from your arm, to do a few tests. And he will want to talk to you, so you have to stay awake for a bit, can you do this?" John's voice again, soft and compassionate and…

Awake. Had to stay awake. But tired…

John's hands were back, somewhere on his face, and it hurt… And it was hot. Fever, he realised dazedly, he had a fever.

"J'hn," he mumbled, confused. "'s hot…"

"Ssh, Sherlock, it's fine," John's voice answered from somewhere in the dark. "You're running a bit of a temperature, but you'll be fine. Tell me, does it hurt anywhere?"

Hurt? Fever… what should hurt, what? "Head," he whispered, feeling the urge to sleep roll over him. Head, what else? "John, I… tired," he ended quietly.

"I know, Sherlock, I know," John repeated rather helplessly. "Just a few minutes, and then you'll be allowed to sleep again."

The few minutes seemed to pass eternally slow to Sherlock.

That isn't fair, John, he wanted to say, to tell me a few minutes while in reality it will take hours. Too much effort, he found. And his head felt far too fuzzy. Another moan was what he settled on.

Fever… Interesting, he mused, that he should know. But then, John had been talking to someone, quietly, probably intending to let him sleep, saying something about a low grade fever and infection, some kind of infection somewhere…

"Doctor Watson, good morning," a loud voice suddenly yelled and made him flinch. "And Mr Holmes. How are we today?"

We? Why 'we'? Sherlock thought confusedly. He didn't even know that man, how should he know how he felt? Strange, he decided, very strange.

A part of him realised that his thoughts weren't making much sense, but he was too exhausted to care. John would care. John would know what to do.

"Still a bit sleepy today, aren't we, Mr Holmes?" the foreign man continued chatting rather mindlessly, doing something with one of his arms. "In a bad mood, then?" he went on. "Not talking to me today, Mr Holmes?"

Why did he have to talk in such a loud voice? Sherlock frowned without opening his eyes, trying to turn away from the noises. His head…

"Now, now, Mr Holmes," the doctor made, reminding Sherlock of Mrs Hudson for a moment, Mrs Hudson when he hadn't eaten her breakfast once more… and then addressed John: "Doctor Watson, weren't you told that he was supposed to be awake when we're drawing those blood samples?"

It didn't make much sense what that man was saying. He was awake, wasn't he? And even if not, it shouldn't sound as if this was John's fault. Slowly, he fought his eyes open a tiny bit, enough to see blurry John and blurry unfriendly man. "'m awake," he mumbled. "Leave J'hn…"

Suddenly, there was something cold on his right arm, something uncomfortably cold… And where was John? Risking two glances, Sherlock realised that John was still there, standing next to the doctor, and that some cold liquid was on his arm. What had John said? Blood… blood samples. Dis… disinfectives?

"How does your head feel today?" the loud, annoying voice went on. "And what about the nausea? Is it still present?"

"Hm," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again. "Head… ache…" Another sensation in his arm, piercing, this time. Oh. He flinched a tiny bit when the doctor slid something into his arm. Something… blood samples. What… Oh. Needle.

"How much do you need?" John wanted to know all of a sudden, his voice sounding… sounding… Sherlock was too tired to tell. Suspicious, maybe? Tense… But why… Didn't matter. And it was hot, so hot…

"Two vials." The sting in his arm disappeared and reappeared, oddly enough, and this time it hurt enough to distract him from his headache. His right arm cringed, and Sherlock frowned.

"Oh," the doctor muttered. "Missed the vein."

Missed the vein... Was that important? Sherlock didn't care, as long as the voice had shut up.

His arm was being moved, his right arm, feeling different all of a sudden when something was removed… something? Oh. Tor… tor… torni… he didn't remember the word. Something used for taking… something…

"Press."

Before Sherlock had time to wonder what this meant, an exhausting task for his fever-addled brain, pressure appeared on his right arm, pressure and another gentle touch.

"You OK?" a quiet voice then asked. Oh, John, of course. Stupid. John was applying pressure… Good.

OK? Him? Why shouldn't he? Apart from the fever, he mused, John wouldn't like it…

"Mh," he made, too tired to do anything else.

There was silence for a while, enough silence for Sherlock to almost fall asleep again.

"Burst vein…," The doctor's voice again. Not John's, the other one's. "Blood thinning agents…"

"Of course," he heard John mumble. "He's been receiving them for days… prevent thrombosis… blood clots… but now it'll slow the coagulation…"

Sherlock's head was spinning by only hearing those words lest alone trying to understand them. Before he realised it, he nodded off.

"I'll bandage your arm now," John's voice brought him back to reality. Squeezing his eyes open, Sherlock realised that the doctor was gone. "Try not to move it too much in the next time."

As if he could move anything. Or wanted to. "Hm."

John was worried, Sherlock understood as much. Worried… but why?

"Are you alright? Are you in pain? Light-headed? Dizzy?"

Everything, would have been the truth. "Head… ache," Sherlock mumbled instead, screwing his eyes shut. "…tired."

Before John had finished his bandage, Sherlock was asleep again.

x

Hours later, Sherlock was half-awake, too tired to make an effort to go to sleep again, too tired to try to talk.

"…nary tract infection," he heard John say. "Bladder infection. That's what causes his fever. Normally, urinating would be painful, but since he's still catheterised…"

There had to be someone else in the room, John wouldn't talk to himself… Mary, Sherlock realised after endless seconds. John's… wife.

"Fever… unusual…" Her voice.

Then John again. "It's unusual, yes, but not impossible. His immune system is so weak, it's actually a miracle he didn't develop pneumonia. Just a bladder infection."

Hm. Interesting. And impossible to understand.

"Is that bad?" Her voice. "I mean…"

John sighed. Sherlock barely stopped himself from drifting off, wanting to know what John was saying. Whom he was talking about. Had to be someone important, someone John liked… "He's receiving antibiotics now, and they should kick in soon. Hopefully. So, no. I think we've caught it in time to prevent it from turning into something worse. It's just… First his allergic reaction, then the seizure. And now a bladder infection. He really wouldn't have needed that."

Someone important… Sherlock turned his head a little, a tiny bit, in John's direction.

"Sherlock?" John asked immediately.

John, someone important. John was important, John… alright?

He let out a soft exhale, almost a sigh, feeling cool hands on his face. Cool… cool was good. Cool…

Fever, his mind told him. Fever…

"…get better… physiothe…"

"…confus… fu… hn…"

The voices were drowned out slowly, replaced by merciful oblivion.

* * *

Thank you for reading. If there's anything you want to tell me, don't hesitate to leave feedback.

Another little warning at the end of this chapter: I won't be at home for the next few days, won't even have access to a computer, so the next installment might take a bit longer.

Have a nice day!


	17. Chapter 16

Thank you all. Seriously. For everything.

To keep it short: Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

16

* * *

It got better. Very gradually, it got better.

Bladder infection. John had, as weird as it might appear, been relieved when he had heard the diagnosis, relieved that the fever wasn't caused by something else, something which was far more dangerous and life-threatening such as pneumonia or a kidney infection. That was, if it didn't turn into a kidney infection.

The doctors sedated Sherlock and did both a CT scan and an ultra sound scan to check for a possible kidney inflammation, but found nothing. Bladder infection, apparently. Nothing more. And the fever, of course, doing as much as the sedation to keep Sherlock calm.

John spent the next two days trying to coax litres of tea into Sherlock, tea he had been given by some nurse and which was supposed to help with both the fever and the infection, supporting the antibiotics Sherlock was receiving intravenously. Why not, John decided, not feeling too comfortable about antibiotics anyway, and helped Sherlock drink a few sips, and when his friend didn't throw it up immediately again as he had done with the first bowl of light soup he had been presented on the fourth day after he had woken, John deemed it safe to give him some more.

Sherlock probably didn't even realise what he was drinking, being too thoroughly in the claws of the fever. Although it never spiked past 38.4 degrees, it left him weak and even more exhausted, and shockingly incoherent.

"'s hot, J'n," he mumbled at least six times within one day, always followed by: "Heating... off... Mrs Hudson..."

When John attempted to ask him how he felt, if he needed anything, he didn't get an answer first, only an indefinite moan, and when he asked again, carefully and yet firmly, Sherlock told him: "Don' 'eed... where's J'n, don'..."

Most likely it was for the best that he spent most of the time in a status close to delirium, not noticing much of what was going on around him, or at least not paying attention to it.

Doctors came and went, came to examine him, listening to his lungs on John's insistence, causing Sherlock to mutter: "Cold, J'n, leave J'n...", or prodding his kidneys for any sign of infection or anything, making Sherlock squirm as far as possible without moving too much.

At least he drank the tea whenever John gave him some, always lifting his already propped up head a little, pressing the spout cup to his lips and encouraging him to swallow. Only one time John feared he was going to choke on the tea, coughing and coughing and coughing, but before he had decided to press the alarm button, the coughing subsided again, allowing John to relax minutes later.

After this experience, he set the tea aside for two hours.

x

Sherlock was asleep when a nurse came in to change the bedding, empty the urine bag and exchange the drip.

John had seen much in his life, both during his time in Afghanistan and in the past few days in hospital, he had watched the doctors pull the stitches on Sherlock's head, had seen the wound and the developing scar from surgery, he had watched his best friend vomiting into a bowl, had even been allowed to take a look at the MRI scans. And he had watched Sherlock being left for hours, left to die.

But somehow, simple actions like the nurse's always disturbed him the most.

Professionally, she turned Sherlock on his side, removed the bedding on one side, turned him around again, did the same on the other side… It was frightening, frightening to think that there were moments when Sherlock was absolutely defenceless. And helpless.

John continued watching silently as she quickly emptied the almost full urine bag - thanks to the tea - and returned with it seconds later, hooking it up to the tube again. And everything while Sherlock was sleeping.

"A fresh round of antibiotics," she told John while she was exchanging the IV bag. "His fever's still rather high, isn't it?"

John only nodded, wondering silently if he would ever get the image of Sherlock lying on the street, lifeless, out of his head. Not any time soon, probably, when only watching a nurse doing her job and doing with his sleeping best friend whatever she liked was all he needed to be reminded of… that.

John sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to get rid of the images. In vain. Of course.

x

It took four days for the fever to disappear altogether, with the third one being the worst of all.

Mrs Hudson was there for a visit, softly stroking Sherlock's cheek and trying to make him drink something when he suddenly stiffened, let out a horrifying choking noise and started convulsing.

Seizure. Again. The second one, already, the second one since he had woken.

Jumping up from his chair, shoving Mrs Hudson aside, clearly shocked, John grabbed Sherlock's head and focused on his watch, on anything but his thrashing best friend.

"Get a doctor," he told Mrs Hudson curtly, intending to get her out of the way.

Sherlock had already stilled by the time the doctor arrived, lying motionless and pale as a corpse.

"I don't understand," John heard the doctor mumble. "He's receiving anti-seizure medication, he shouldn't..."

One minute and fifty-two seconds. In this moment, John didn't care if the doctor was at a loss, too. All he knew was that recurring seizures definitely were not good.

"Then find out!" he spat at the man, balling his trembling left hand to a fist.

x

Sherlock was still out cold when Mary arrived one hour later, out of breath.

"I came immediately after I got Mrs Hudson's call," she panted, throwing her arms around John's neck. "John..." Her voice broke when she took a closer look at Sherlock.

Nothing had changed in John's eyes, he still appeared pale and sick and feverish and limp, but maybe Mary could see any improvement, as tiny as it might be.

"He looks horrible," she whispered seconds later, destroying all of John's hopes. "Another seizure?"

John nodded curtly, keeping his features purposefully composed.

"And the infection?" she wanted to know in a hushed voice, as if not to wake Sherlock.

John allowed himself to sigh and flexed his fingers. "Better," he answered. "A bit. His fever's down to 37.7. But he's been out since the seizure. And will be, I suppose, for a few more hours."

Slowly, almost hesitatingly, Mary took off her coat and her scarf and drew a second chair close. "Poor Mrs Hudson," she whispered. "I don't think she'll find any sleep tonight. Maybe... maybe you should give her a call. Later," she added quickly, "when he's awake."

When he's awake. John far too clearly remembered the last time he had spent waiting for Sherlock to come round after his first seizure, how dazed Sherlock had been even hours later, how confused.

"I suppose I should," he answered. "Mary..."

She hugged him. "I know. I know you don't want to leave him, not even for a few seconds. I can call her, if you want me to."

Calling his former landlady. His duty, actually. "No, it's... fine. Later," he concluded, pulling her close.

x

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered weakly after more than five hours, in the late evening.

He groaned quietly, sloppily lifting his right hand a bit, letting it loll down after a few inches. "Mhm...," he made, frowning.

John bit back a sigh - of both relief and anxiety - and fumbled for Sherlock's right hand. "Sherlock?" he inquired. "Can you hear me?"

Dull, Sherlock was supposed to snap at him. Can't you ask something else, John?

Instead, he only moaned again.

"Do you know who I am?" John went on, exchanging a quick glance with Mary. The fear was there, always, that Sherlock's condition might deteriorate.

"J'n," came the slurred answer. "Hot, J'n..."

John released the breath he had been holding. "It's fine, Sherlock. Go back to sleep."

His friend obeying his advice was definitely something John didn't want to get used to.

x

The next morning, John, despite having found next to no sleep, felt slightly more optimistic than before, being told by a doctor that Sherlock's temperature was close to normal again, had fallen further during the night.

Mere moments after the man had left, Sherlock started to stir.

"John?" he whispered hoarsely. "What..."

John couldn't fight off the grin spreading over his entire face. "Doesn't matter now," he answered.

Sherlock fought his eyes open, blinking heavily against the bright light. "John, I..." he began, interrupting himself. "Where...," he then whispered.

John bent down to him and took hold of his hand. "You're in hospital, remember? You were a bit sick, but you're better now. Do you remember anything?"

The confused look did not leave his face. "It... was... hot," he finally croaked.

John gently gave his hand a squeeze. "You had a fever," he explained quietly.

"Tea...," Sherlock mumbled, frowning. "You... and tea and... and Mrs Hudson." His eyes sluggishly moved around, as if searching for his landlady.

"She's at home now, Sherlock," John softly told him. "Although she was quite worried."

Sherlock kept looking at him with something akin to bewilderment. "Worr...," he mumbled, exhaling carefully.

It caused John's heart to clench painfully to see Sherlock's vulnerable expression, so utterly helpless and... lost. Following his first instinct, he pulled Sherlock's unresisting hand up and pressed it against his cheek. "Yes, Sherlock," he croaked, his voice breaking. "Worried." Worried to no end, in fact. "You really have to stop doing this, you know. Scaring all of us half to death. I don't know..." This time, his voice did fail him, and he barely managed to blink the tears away. Sherlock didn't have to see this, didn't have to see him crying. "I don't know what I'd do if... if you..." He didn't finish his sentence and instead focused on fighting back his tears. "Just promise me you won't do anything like that again. No more infections, hm?"

Sherlock's colourless lips curved into a weak smile. "Promise, J'hn," he breathed. "'m sorry..."

John pressed his eyes shut. "It's not your fault," he choked out. "Just... get better. Please."

The soft twitching of Sherlock's fingers against his skin was enough to cause John to sniffle. "Alright," he mumbled.

It got better. At least, it didn't get worse.

* * *

Thank you for reading!

Don't hesitate to let me know what you think.


	18. Chapter 17

Thank you all. Again.

Finally on the way to recovery, is all I have to say.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

17

* * *

Sherlock knew that he was improving. Could see it in John's face, still appearing worried, but no longer… no longer frightened.

Bladder infection, he remembered vaguely, but it seemed to have passed. He didn't feel much different, only colder, without the fever, as John had told him.

He didn't feel normal. Or at least he didn't feel as he assumed he should when feeling normal again.

And he still didn't understand why his brain was so… fuzzy sometimes. Most of the time.

Most of the time when he wasn't sleeping, that was.

He didn't feel fine, and he didn't claim to feel fine. He didn't, however, tell John how he really felt either. No need for John to worry. No need for him to worry more than he already did. Sherlock didn't like the way John was looking, tired and worn.

So he kept his mouth shut, did everything they told him to do, let them do anything they wanted. And felt horrible, to tired to even care.

The only one he couldn't convince, however, the only one who mattered, was John.

x

"And now, move your left hand, please."

Left hand... left... had to… had to… John's face appeared in front of his closed eyes, looking at him expectantly. John. Wasn't allowed to worry John.

Sherlock forced his muscles to contract, not entirely sure if it was his left hand in fact.

"Very well," he was told. "Touch your left shoulder with your left hand."

Even more left... Sherlock held his breath while he concentrated on his arm.

"It is important that you keep breathing regularly," the annoying voice reminded him. "Try again."

Breathing... Left arm... Sherlock flinched involuntarily at the sudden pain in his head.

"Once more, Mr Holmes," the woman sitting next to him encouraged him.

Once more... He pressed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, trying to breathe nonetheless... and raise his left arm. Shoulder... shoulder... breathe... breathe... It hadn't been so difficult with his right arm. And why was it so difficult at all?

"Very well," he heard again after what felt like minutes. "Very well, Mr Holmes. And now relax and concentrate on taking deep breaths."

After a while, Sherlock dared to open his eyes again, seeing the blurry figure of his... physiotherapist which was slowly clearing. And John, John sitting close, watching him with that gaze of his, appearing... worried. Worried.

Sherlock bit his lip to prevent a moan as another wave of pain shot through his head.

"How are you feeling now, Mr Holmes? Dizzy, as you did yesterday, or better? Nauseous?" the woman wanted to know.

"No," he lied croakily. "All... fine."

She nodded. "The doctor told me that they are intending to remove the catheter tomorrow, to minimise the risk of another bladder infection. If he keeps progressing so nicely, he will be allowed to walk a few steps in about one week, I think."

John mimicked her nod. "You're finished for today?" he wanted to know.

Sherlock let his eyes slide close, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

"We're done, yes," she answered. "See you tomorrow, Mr Holmes."

"Mh." He found he couldn't muster the energy to say anything else. Weak, so weak, a voice in his head said.

"Sherlock," John addressed him a while later. "Tell me the truth. Don't even think about lying to me. You are dizzy, aren't you?"

John. Too clever for his own good sometimes. "'m fine," he mumbled, turning his head away from John. "Jus' tired."

There was a cool hand on his forehead, a gentle touch to his skin. "You don't have a fever," John remarked quietly.

"Told you," Sherlock muttered, twisting a tiny bit, attempting to get more comfortable. And to get away from John's probing gaze. "Tired."

"Hm." John wasn't convinced, Sherlock could hear it very clearly. "It's only been two days since your fever disappeared, maybe it's too early…"

Sherlock forced his eyes open again. "Really, J'hn," he insisted. "Ex... Exhaust..."

"If you claim this in a complete sentence, I'll believe you," John muttered darkly.

Sherlock remained quiet and allowed himself to doze off.

x

Someone was talking, quietly, as if not to disturb him.

"…maybe should spend the nights at home, John, you look…"

"…leave him alone… Sherlock…"

They were talking about him, he realised dazedly. Mary and John, talking about him.

"…am your wife, John, and I understa… he'll… need you, too…"

"I love you, Mary, but Sherlock…"

The voices disappeared. No, Sherlock wanted to shout, wait! He couldn't, caught in blackness.

John and Mary… they belonged together, his sleep-deprived brain, sleep-deprived and fuzzy and not functioning properly, told him, John and Mary… not Sherlock.

x

When he woke in the morning, he was alone. Alone...

Panicked for a moment, Sherlock turned his head, looking for John.

John... John wasn't here.

Wasn't here, wasn't here, wasn't here. Got tired of him, the voice said again.

Sucking in a few shaky breaths, Sherlock forced himself to calm down.

John, where was John? Think. Concentrate. Think. And slowly, he remembered.

John had told him, John was at home, together with Mary, his wife. His wife. John was with his wife. John spent the nights at home now. John would come, soon, in the morning. John had told him... Sometimes, Sherlock recalled hazily, he would wake up too early and John would still be at home. And it felt… He didn't like it. When he fell asleep again, John would come and be there as soon as Sherlock woke up again.

"When you need me, press the call button and tell a nurse to call me. No matter how late. I'll take the next cab and come immediately." John had told him... yesterday? The day before yesterday? Sherlock didn't remember that.

Carefully, he tried to turn to his side, to make himself more comfortable.

"He barely found any sleep tonight," Mary had whispered to him after the first night, he remembered while closing his eyes. "John was so worried about you, so worried what might happen to you when he wasn't there..."

Sherlock sighed slightly, moving his arm a tiny bit. He didn't understand. Worried, Mary had said. And yet, John wasn't here in the nights anymore. Mary. Was he angry... But no, worried. Worried... Sherlock was too tired to grab what this was supposed to mean. Mary. John's wife. Of course he was with his wife, of course…it was where he should be, Sherlock managed to remind himself, with his wife. Husband. Wife. Family. No place for him. But alright.

His last coherent thought came to him when he was already half-asleep: John would come back, in the morning, and that was all that mattered.

x

John woke him by shaking his shoulder softly, very softly.

"Sherlock," he addressed him quietly. "The doctor's here, to remove the urinary catheter."

Urinary... Remove the catheter.

"What...," he mumbled, blinking heavily to keep his eyes open.

"Nothing," John answered quickly. "You don't have to do anything. Just lie still, alright? And don't fall asleep."

Oh John. Quick to anticipate what Sherlock meant these days. And there. Always there. Despite his wife, and duties, and family… "John?" Sherlock croaked hoarsely.

"Hm?" John turned his attention back to him.

"Thank you."

The smile that was spreading on John's face made Sherlock feel funny. Warm, all of a sudden.

"Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson," another voice appeared seconds later. "Ready, Mr Holmes?"

Ready whatfor? Sherlock wanted to ask while the doctor was pulling the covers away, making him feel cold, the warmth disappearing again.

"Can you place your legs differently? Like that?"

Sherlock didn't see anything, didn't know what he was supposed to do. He simply let the doctor and John do whatever they needed.

Moments later, John reappeared beside his head. "Don't look," he told him.

Sherlock nodded weakly. He couldn't have, not even if he wanted to.

It became even colder, causing him to shiver and goosebumps to form on his arms.

"Cold?" John asked him, grabbing one of his hands.

Sherlock attempted another smile. "Obviou... sly," he breathed.

Something happened in John's face, something... Sherlock couldn't name it, but then John started giggling and squeezed his hands. "Obviously," he repeated.

Sherlock suddenly felt a tiny bit of warmth besides the cold surrounding him.

"So, done," the doctor announced minutes later. John disappeared again, and the warmth reappeared. Oh. His trousers. He was wearing his trousers again, Sherlock realised eventually.

He didn't feel much warmer when John replaced the covers and the other doctor started talking to him. "Urinating will probably be a bit painful in the first time, Mr Holmes," he said. "You're still wearing diapers, so it won't be a problem if you miss the urge to urinate at first, but you should try to get used to calling a nurse as soon as you feel the need to. The nurses will assist you in relieving yourself."

Sherlock simply tried to nod. "Diapers?" he asked John as soon as the doctor had left. He assumed he should be embarrassed, but again found that it was too much effort.

John chuckled quietly as he produced another blanket from somewhere, spreading it over Sherlock and in general pulling the covers up to his chin, helping him to put both of his arms beneath them, as always mindful of the IV line.

"Yes, diapers," he confirmed. "Just in case."

Diapers. Sherlock exhaled slowly. "Don' tell anyone...," he mumbled sleepily, thankful for the warmth the blanket was providing him with.

John chuckled again. "I won't," he promised. Just before he closed his eyes, Sherlock felt another light touch. John, he registered distantly, John rearranging the covers or the IV line or the oxygen line... John. Thank you, John. Giving in to the warmth, Sherlock nodded off.

* * *

Thank you for reading!

Remember, I'm always glad about feedback!


	19. Chapter 18

I'll keep it short today. Just thank you and enjoy!

* * *

Not Meant to Be

18

* * *

John interrupted his reading when Mary and Mrs Hudson entered.

"Oh my...," Mary began before biting her lip and exchanging a quick glance with John.

"Mary," Sherlock mumbled from the bed. "Mrs... Hudson."

"Hello, dear," the old lady chirped as merrily as possible and approached the bed, reaching out to stroke Sherlock's cheek.

"So... shock... ing?" he inquired slowly, directing his gaze at Mary.

Mary finally regained her composure. "Unusual," she settled on, shooting John another look.

John laid his book aside and gazed sideways himself. He had grown used to Sherlock's constant pallidness and the still present smudges beneath his eyes. Yesterday, however, the doctors had removed the gauze cap, exposing Sherlock's short hair and the still red scar on his scalp. Frightening, probably, if one wasn't used to it. Only frightening for John when he thought about what had forced this haircut.

"Perfect match," Mary said suddenly, removing her jacket.

Neither John nor Sherlock understood.

"You and John," she explained. "In a few weeks, when your hair has grown a bit longer, you and John will have the same haircut. Perfect match. Except for the colour, of course."

John snorted curtly. "I'd rather had it differently," he muttered darkly.

Sherlock coughed in his bed, causing Mrs Hudson to huff and John to turn his head. "Alright?" he wanted to know.

Rather breathlessly, Sherlock nodded, not comforting John at all. He was about to fetch another pillow to prop Sherlock up when Mrs Hudson huffed again.

"Sherlock, dear." She shook her head. "You need to eat, dear. How do you want to get better if you're thin as that?"

John observed Mary's eyes wander to the still full soup plate standing on the table. "Nothing?" she mouthed. John shook his head.

Of course he had tried to get Sherlock to eat, half of the soup plate at least, but it had been futile. Sherlock had refused at first, and when he had given in and swallowed the first spoon of soup, he had started retching only seconds later, throwing the soup and a few glasses of water up again. Since he was still connected to the IV line, John hadn't pressed him any further.

"We already had that today, Mrs Hudson," he addressed his former landlady. "He wasn't able to keep anything down."

There were days like that one, occasionally, days when Sherlock started vomiting as soon as someone simply mentioned food, when a glass of water was all John could coax into him. But then there were other days when Sherlock's hand almost wasn't shaking, when he managed to grab the spoon by himself, when a plate of hot soup or a cup of tea brought a bit of colour back to his face, and it was those days John was craving for, that gave him the reassurance that they might be fine again.

"Not today, Mrs H," he told her, trying to sound comforting. "Shall I read on, Sherlock, or are you about to fall asleep?"

"Read," Sherlock croaked, fussed about by Mrs Hudson, and so he did.

x

The first time Sherlock was allowed - or demanded - to get up and try to walk a few steps was a nightmare for John.

The physiotherapist was there, as well as John, of course, tense to the point of being anxious.

Sherlock simply didn't seem well enough to be out of bed, didn't seem as if his legs could carry his weight. Sitting up was exhausting enough, John could see it every time Sherlock heaved his body up, to be able to eat something, and eating, too, was still a challenge with trembling hands.

Of course he had known that the day would come, eventually, and although he thought that maybe, just maybe, it would contribute to Sherlock's rehabilitation, this didn't mean that John had to like it.

Sherlock was sitting already, all colour drained from his face, and yet the physiotherapist was encouraging him to move his legs to the edge of the bed.

"In your own time," John felt bound to add, resting one of his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Anything?"

"'m fine," Sherlock replied flatly, breathing shallowly. John found he couldn't even scold him for the lie - it wasn't a lie, not when being said in this way, utterly unconvincing.

"Your legs, Mr Holmes," the physiotherapist said again. "Move them to the edge of the bed."

John watched anxiously as Sherlock slowly shifted a bit, shifted far enough until his feet were dangling over the edge of the bed. It was scaring, in fact, how difficult it appeared to be for Sherlock and how much energy it seemed to take out of him. If John had been in charge, he decided, he would have ordered Sherlock to stop by now, told him to lie down and elevate his legs, to stimulate his circulation. But now, he remained quiet, only tightening his grip on Sherlock's bony shoulder. "Go easy," he couldn't help to remind him.

"Good," the therapist interjected. "Very good. Concentrate for a few seconds, and then focus on slowly getting up."

Getting up. As if this was so easy.

Almost hurriedly, John let go of Sherlock and got off the bed, standing in front of Sherlock while his therapist took hold of his shoulders.

"Alright?" he asked Sherlock quietly.

His friend only nodded, gritting his teeth, sweat appearing on his forehead.

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock attempted to get to his feet, John feeling as if he rather pulled Sherlock than Sherlock did something himself.

Sherlock's knees started trembling madly, and nonetheless the physiotherapist kept encouraging him. "Very good, you're doing very well."

No, he isn't! John wanted to yell, to make her stop. Can't you see that it's hurting him?

She couldn't, apparently. "Good, really good. Now lift your left leg and try a step forward."

Supported by John on the one side and the therapist on the other, Sherlock managed a shaky step, his panting loud in John's ears, even a second one.

"Very good," the therapist was just saying again when John all of a sudden felt something pulling at his arm and shoulder and almost failed to catch Sherlock as he collapsed, becoming a boneless heap in John's arms.

"Oi," the physiotherapist made. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

John didn't pay attention to her as he quickly lowered his friend back to the bed, his heart beating wildly in his chest, and began tapping his cheek.

Sherlock's eyelids started to flutter after a few moments. Flutter, but didn't open. "J'n," he breathed. "What…"

"I'll best come back tomorrow," the physiotherapist muttered, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

"Mh," John half-heartedly acknowledged what she haid said and lifted Sherlock's legs to the bed, pulling the covers up. "Tell me your name," he demanded while he prodded Sherlock's neck for his carotid artery.

"John," Sherlock mumbled instead, his eyes still closed. "'m sorry."

John kept his fingers where they were. "Your name, I said," he replied quietly. "Not mine. And what do you mean, you're sorry?"

Sherlock sucked in another shallow breath and turned his head away from John. "Couldn'… get up," he slurred. "Too… s'ry. Freak… fail…"

John was sure his heart missed a beat in this very moment. "Shut up, Sherlock," he demanded harshly. "It was a bit early, yes, but that doesn't matter. We'll try again tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, when you're a bit stronger, and you'll see, you'll be able to walk to the toilet and… Sherlock?"

No reaction. His pulse was steady, at least, calming John a tiny bit. Passed out due to exhaustion, apparently, and what was worst about that was that John didn't even know how much Sherlock had heard of his explanation.

x

Sherlock came to a few hours later, sighing and blinking his eyes open.

John was there with a spout cup, urging him to drink at least a few sips. Sherlock seemed relieved, however, when he could lie down again.

"You tired?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock attempted a tiny nod. "Mhm."

So John swallowed down everything he longed to say and remained silent, determined to let Sherlock get some more rest. The attempt of getting up indeed seemed to have taken much out of him.

"John," Sherlock began after a few minutes, his gaze directed at the ceiling. "You don'… don' have to… stay… here all… time."

John was left speechless.

"Home… with… Mary," Sherlock went on, sounding feeble. "Don'… stay… 'cause feel respon… duty…"

It felt as if someone ripped John's heart out. "Sherlock…," he croaked.

"'s fine," his friend, his bloody best friend, slurred, closing his eyes.

All of sudden, John felt anger well up inside him. "No, it's not fine!" he shouted, loud enough to make Sherlock flinch. "Do you even know what you're talking about?" he went on, fuming. Not too softly, he grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and shook him, then rested both of his hands on his cheeks and forced his best friend to look at him. "You've got no idea what you're talking about, no idea! I'm not staying because I think it's my duty, I'm staying because…" John's voice failed him. "Because there's only one other person I care about as much as I do about you - Mary -, and I'm reasonably sure you need me more right now."

"But…," Sherlock mumbled, interrupting him.

"No," John explained firmly, not letting go of Sherlock's face. "No, you listen to me now. I know you're tired all the time and hurting and… and confused, and you probably want nothing more than everything to be alright again. I know," he cleared his throat, still staring into Sherlock's eyes. "I know, because I feel the same. But I don't care. I went through hell and back in the days after your accident, when no-one knew if you would ever wake up again, and I won't let you push me away now so easily. I know it's exhausting and frustrating and terrifying what you're going through at the moment, but you won't go through that without me. Yes, it will be painful and… and excrutiating, and it will probably take a long time, but we will pull through that. We will, Sherlock, do you understand me? Together. Because you're my best friend, and this time, I won't let you down. No matter what you do, you won't get rid of me."

Sherlock blinked heavily. "But Mary…," he whispered.

"Mary," John stated, "would probably have slapped you in the face if she had heard what you just said. And since I know that you've still got a headache, I suggest you don't repeat it in her presence."

This brought a small smile to Sherlock's pallid face. "John…," he whispered again, but John only shook his head. "Not now," he mumbled, giving in to the need to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I know you're exhausted. Try to sleep, and in the morning, we can talk about everything. But not now. And don't you dare to say anything as stupid as that again."

Sherlock's eyes closed, but his grip on John's hand didn't loosen.

x

John stayed until after midnight, not bearing the thought of leaving Sherlock alone now, and fought a long battle with himself in that time, a battle he lost in the end.

Carefully unwrapping his hand, he slowly got to his feet, grabbing his jacket and his mobile.

Logic had won in the end, the logic that it was more useful - for both him and Sherlock - if he went home that night. Logic that it wasn't helpful if he stayed 24/7 as he had done in the beginning, until a few days ago, never leaving Sherlock's side. They were both grown-ups, he told himself, perfectly capable to spend a night without each other. It was what they had done for more than two years now.

And yet, as he closed the door to the hospital room, taking a final look at Sherlock, sleeping peacefully, it felt wrong, even more so than it had the nights before.

He would be back in the morning, John tried to calm himself, probably even before Sherlock had woken. They would be fine.

John wasn't surprised that in this night he slept more poorly than he had done for one week, haunted by nightmares of Sherlock lying on the street, shouting at him to leave, to abandon him - as he had done before.

* * *

Poor John, isn't he? Forced to take a decision... and then pursued by nightmares.

Anyway, thank you for reading! Feedback, as always, is of course appreciated. :)


	20. Chapter 19

Thank you all for - still - reading and showing interest and everything else - thank you!

So here's for you - the next part.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

19

* * *

Sherlock surfaced to consciousness very slowly. The first thing he became aware of was a strange sensation somewhere, somewhere…

He started retching before he even knew what was happening.

Not right, not right, not right, his brain told him. Not fine.

"John…," he slurred as the world was turning around him.

John. But John wasn't here. John was at home, where he belonged. John wouldn't be pleased.

He was shivering, Sherlock realised distantly, shivering… The strange sensation did not disappear, and he only had the chance to turn his head sideways before he began heaving again.

Button, John's voice said in his head. Button…

Forcing his clumsy fingers to contract, Sherlock somehow managed to find the call button and press it.

While he lay there, cold and shivering, memories came to his mind, memories of him walking in a street… street… The searing pain in his head made him retch a third time.

Other memories, of John, John telling him that he didn't stay because he felt responsible, that he stayed because of Sherlock… Stupid. Stupid. No-one ever stayed because of him.

"John…," he mumbled again as a nurse entered, addressing him calmly.

"John…," was the only word he could think of.

"Do you want me to call him?" The nurse's voice.

Sherlock wrenched his eyes open to see a room that was spinning. Call John… yes, his intestines screamed. "No," he whispered, feeling like choking. "No." He had to be fine without John, had to give John some privacy, some time with his wife…

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing as the nurse carefully turned him to his side and began to change the bedding, followed by his t-shirt.

He was cold and exhausted by the time she was finished and didn't oppose when she asked him if he preferred a light sedative to fall asleep again.

Sherlock welcomed the blackness this time, making him forget all thoughts about John.

x

When he opened his eyes the next time, it was bright in his room, and he was not alone.

"Hey," John greeted him with a smile. "You missed breakfast. I thought we'd best let you sleep. Yesterday was pretty exhausting, wasn't it?"

Sherlock stared at John for a few seconds, at the wrinkles in his face, at the dark circles around his eyes. His fault. His fault because he kept John away from Mary.

"Mh," he made and let his eyes slide shut again.

"You're still tired?" John wanted to know, sounding unbelieving.

"Mh," Sherlock repeated, turning his head away from John.

John was silent for a few seconds. "What about I'm getting you something to eat, and then you can sleep?" he suggested.

The thought of food made Sherlock want to vomit again. He screwed his eyes shut and willed the feeling to go away. "Not hungry," he mumbled.

"Sherlock?" John asked, sounding worried. Worried… "You alright?"

"Mh," he said for the third time. "'m fine. You… fussin'."

"I don't think I am," John muttered, and suddenly, Sherlock felt a hand on his forehead. "Hm. No fever."

Moaning, Sherlock tried to roll a bit more onto his side. Not good. The movement made him dizzy for a short moment.

"J'n," he hissed between gritted teeth, his mind longing for John's comforting touch or his voice again. Stupid, Sherlock tried to tell himself.

"What?" John was there, of course, immediately. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Nothin'," he mumbled, exhaling carefully. "Tired. Sleep."

x

Sherlock was woken by John shaking his shoulder softly.

"Lunch," John announced.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open to see a nurse entering, a nurse with a tray in her hands, smiling. Food. His insides protested, and Sherlock let his eyes close.

"Sherlock," John prodded him seconds later. "You have to eat something. Noodle soup. That's not too bad, I'd say. Sherlock, come on."

I can't, John, Sherlock wanted to say. I can't. I'm going to throw it all up again, and throwing up hurts… Please, John, make it stop.

"'m not hungry," he forced out between two breaths.

Again, John was silent for a short while. "Sherlock, please," he then said. "I'm worried about you, alright? Tell me what's wrong."

Worried. Worried about him. For a moment, Sherlock felt like simply giving in and letting John make it all better. But he didn't, a part of his mind keeping him from doing so.

He had found his way back into a half-stupor when John disappeared, quietly enough for him to almost miss it.

Gone. John was gone. Suddenly, Sherlock felt a lot colder.

x

When John reappeared, he did so much more loudly than before.

"Why didn't you tell me that you're nauseous?" he wanted to know, sounding close to angry. Sherlock forced his eyes open.

"Sherlock, seriously, why didn't you tell me? And why didn't you call me when you started throwing up? I would have come immediately, you know that, don't you?" John had sat down on the edge of the bed, searching for Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock sighed and tried to organise his thoughts. So much was swirling around, so much… "Knew that," he finally mumbled, hoping it was what he had intended to say. "Need to stay… with… Mary… wife…"

For a second, John's face contorted in… yes, disbelief, before his eyes started glistening furiously. "You're an idiot," he told Sherlock, squeezing his hand. "Do you remember what I told you yesterday?"

Sherlock frowned, remember… remember… John telling him something, John angry. "You'we' an'ry," he mumbled, slurring his words.

John's eyes didn't change. "Yes," he admitted curtly. "But that's not what I wanted to know. I want to know why I was angry."

Sherlock blinked heavily, blinked and attempted to concentrate. What else, what else… Oh. "That…," he began slowly, not certain if it hadn't been a dream of his. But then, John was here now… "That… you care 'bout me."

There was a smile on John's face. "Of course I care about you," he replied quietly. "Friends, remember?"

Sherlock had known, of course, before, that they were friends. That John considered him his friend, enough to ask him to be his best man. But now… now things had changed, Sherlock had assumed. With him being… being a nuisance for John.

"Still?" he couldn't help the question.

John's eyebrows twitched. "You serious? Of course 'still'. Always."

Always. A word with a large meaning. Sherlock turned his gaze sideways. "Even if… was… blabb… blabbering idiot now?"

John's hand on his face forced him to look at John, to endure his serious stare. "Would you stop caring about me if I was somehow turned into a 'blabbering idiot'?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and held his breath. "You'rn't," he slurred, barely understandable.

John didn't let go of him. "Neither are you. Answer my question."

Answer, answer… This was _John_. John. Pressing his eyes shut firmly, he managed a tiny shake of the head.

Suddenly, there was movement, shifting, shifting that threatened to make him nauseous and his head explode. When he opened his eyes a sliver, he realised that John had pulled him into a hug and prevented him from breathing. "Are we clear on that? No leaving. Neither you nor me."

Sherlock remained motionless for a few more seconds. "John," he then choked out. "Could you… could you… back…"

"Sorry," John mumbled immediately, helping Sherlock to lie down again. Everything was swirling around him, swirling around John. Nausea. Dizziness.

"Maybe," John began and then cut himself off to clear his throat. "Maybe you should sleep, and we'll try food again in the evening. Resting should make you…"

"Don' want to," Sherlock mumbled, doing everything to keep his eyes open now. John. Time with John. "Thir…sty."

A spout cup appeared in front of him, together with John's hand helping him to grab it. "Slowly," John told him, not releasing his grip on the cup entirely.

"…can, J'n."

Oh. Not really what he had intended. I can drink, John, had been what he had wanted to say. Never mind. John understood.

"Shall I read to you?" John asked and took away the cup. "Agatha Christie? Mary recommended it, said you'd like it."

Carefully, not wanting to wake the nausea again, Sherlock turned until he was lying on his right side. "Mhm."

John read and read and read. Sherlock listened, more to John's voice than to John's words. John. His friend. Friend. Still.

* * *

So. That needed to be said - what John stated, I mean.

Thank you for reading, and, as always, let me know what you think.


	21. Chapter 20

Thank you all. Seriously. I've been... well, tantalising you for so long now, and you're still interested. Brilliant.

So, enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

20

* * *

They left out physiotherapy that day, but in the evening, Sherlock was able to eat something - and keep it down - and in the next morning, Mary came in with a wheelchair.

"It's not good for you to lie in this room all the time," she announced. "John can wheel you around."

Sherlock didn't look too happy, but John was determined all of a sudden. Without Mary's help, he got Sherlock into the wheelchair, Mary tucking a blanket around his legs. "No need to catch a cold," she said.

Sherlock still didn't look too happy.

"It will do you good," John tried to encourage him. "And you don't have to do anything, just sit there. As soon as you want me to, we'll simply come back and you can rest a bit more, OK?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "OK," he muttered.

John exchanged a quick glance with Mary as she shoved the drip stand towards him.

"I have to go to work, unfortunately," she said, clearly attempting to sound cheerful nonetheless. "Enjoy your day, you two," she added, a smile on her face. "See you in the evening."

Kissing John and waving at Sherlock, she left.

"What now?" Sherlock asked when the door to the hospital room had fallen shut.

John kept staring into the distance for a moment, allowing himself to wonder if this really was a good idea. "And now," he answered, trying more or less successfully to grab both the drip stand and the handles of the wheelchair, "we're going for a walk."

x

They ended up in the hospital cafeteria.

"Where would you like to go?" John had asked Sherlock as soon as they had left the room.

Sherlock had hesitated for a moment. "Outside," he then had told John.

Outside. As much as John had wanted to fulfil Sherlock's wish, he hadn't. Outside. Too risky. Far too risky. It was autumn already, not too warm anymore, and Sherlock… he hadn't been outside since that night, had only a few days ago recovered from his bladder infection and really didn't need to contract another illness. John knew in that very moment that he would never forgive himself if he took Sherlock outside now and their little excursion ended with Sherlock having pneumonia and… and…

No. No. Not an option. Particularly not with nothing on than a t-shirt, trousers, socks and a blanket.

John slowed down a bit. "I don't think that's a good idea," he began carefully. "A few days ago, you were sick and I… I don't want you to have a fever yet again."

Sherlock didn't as much as stir, and from his position John of course couldn't see his face. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. What about… the cafeteria instead? You could have something to drink or…," he had ended rather lamely. "Would you like that?"

"Mh," Sherlock had replied quietly. "'s fine."

Now they were sitting in the hospital cafeteria, John on a chair, Sherlock opposite of him, pallid and frail, the drip stand next to him.

John was sipping on his cup of coffee while he kept watching Sherlock whose eyes darted around and tried to take in all the other people around them.

"And you're sure you don't want anything?" John asked again, taking another sip.

Sherlock nodded a tiny bit and pressed his lips together, his eyes still scanning his surroundings.

"OK," John mumbled and kept studying his best friend.

"And you're comfortable?" he wanted to know only seconds later.

Sherlock didn't look at him, didn't even seem to hear him.

Putting down his mug, John bent over the table. "Sherlock?" he asked, trying to hide the worry in his voice. "You OK?"

No answer. Now, John _did _start to worry. "Sherlock, talk to me if you can hear me," he begged. Sherlock's eyes were wide-open, but he didn't appear to be seeing anything, didn't seem to notice the waitress delivering a cup of tea to the table next to them, didn't seem to notice John staring at him.

"Sherlock!" John urged, hearing nothing but his own rapid heartbeat. Staring with vacant eyes. Not good, not good… "Sherlock!"

Sherlock's lips were quivering ever so slightly, John realised and felt a sudden shock course through his veins, and his breathing was quickening, coming close to erratic.

Wrong. Something was wrong.

Not far from panicking, John shot up from his chair, spilling his coffee all over the table, and rushed to Sherlock's side, waving his hand in front of his face. Seconds later, Sherlock seemed to snap back to reality, his eyes closing for a moment and his head sagging forward.

"John," he then croaked, raising his head again, a terrified expression in his eyes. "John, please…"

John, please.

His hands trembling, too, John snatched the drip stand and pulled the wheelchair backwards. "It's alright," he attempted to soothe Sherlock. "Everything's alright. Close your eyes and think of something you like. Try to stay calm, OK? We're going back to your room."

The five minutes it took John to get back to the hospital room without strictly speaking breaking into running were excrutiatingly long.

Sherlock didn't relax when John closed the door and rushed to his side again, kneeling down in front of him, but kept panting, his hands gripping the wheelchair so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

Biting his lip, John rested his hands on Sherlock's cheeks and gently traced his thumbs over the lines around his eyes. Sherlock had them pressed shut firmly, tightly as if in pain, his entire body tense.

"Sherlock," John addressed him, barely keeping his voice from cracking. "Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."

No use. There was something wet around John's fingers, tears leaking from Sherlock's closed eyes. Tears.

"Sherlock," he whispered helplessly, feeling utterly powerless.

The only reaction was more panting, his breaths becoming short and quick. Hyperventilating.

No.

"Sherlock," John tried again, desperate, but without success.

Hyperventilating.

About to become hysteric himself, John let go of Sherlock, hurrying over to the bed, grabbing the oxygen mask that was still lying on the nightstand, disconnected, of course, and pressed it to Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's breathing hitched in the very first moment before he started to inhale again, with each breath increasing the concentration of carbon dioxide in his blood.

"You're doing fine," John attempted to reassure him while his fingers holding the mask were shaking madly. "Sherlock, you're doing…" His voice failed him "Can you… can you just try to breathe together with me?" he begged, focusing on a slow rhythm, replacing one of his hands on Sherlock's cheek. "In and out. In and out. Slowly. Yeah."

It took ages before John was pleased enough with Sherlock's respiration to toss away the oxygen mask, grabbing Sherlock's face and stroking his cold and clammy skin.

"Sherlock?" he asked gently, and this time, Sherlock's eyes opened, puffy and red, but slowly focusing.

"John… I…," he began, but John cut him off. "Don't talk. Breathe. I'm here. You're safe now, yes? Safe. Don't worry. Just relax."

The tears didn't stop, no matter how firm a hold John kept on Sherlock. It broke his heart to watch his best friend, and after a few minutes he softly pulled Sherlock's head towards himself, unresisting, rested it on his shoulder and embraced him as well as it was possible with him kneeling and Sherlock still sitting.

He kept mumbling nonsense until Sherlock had seemed to calm down, until the shaking of his shoulders stopped and his breathing had slowed, had become deeper.

"It's OK," John told him, his own heartbeat still hammering in his chest. "I'll… I'll help you lie down again and then I'm going to call a doctor, alright? Don't worry. You'll be fine."

Sherlock took a large breath, his exhaling tickling the skin on John's throat. "'m fine," he choked out.

John's entire body stiffened, his forehead creased. Very slowly, he assisted Sherlock in raising his head again, staring into the red-rimmed eyes. "I'm sorry if I don't believe you," he replied, wiping away the last tears. Crying. Sherlock had been crying. John wasn't even sure if Sherlock had noticed.

With quivering lips, he attempted a tiny smile. John wasn't convinced. "'m fine, really," Sherlock mumbled, his voice trembling, closing his eyes and simply _breathing_. "Just… just been too much…"

John didn't turn his eyes from Sherlock. Too much. A mild understatement considering the full-blown panic attack he had just witnessed.

I'm sorry, he wanted to scream, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I should have known, I shouldn't have you taken out there, I should have protected you…

But he didn't. Instead, he slowly removed his hands from Sherlock's face and pulled away the blanket.

"Do you think you can stand if I support you?" he asked and cursed himself in the same instant. Stupid question. So stupid. Of course Sherlock couldn't stand, not when he looked like being about to pass out while sitting down. "No, sod this," he corrected himself and moved to the side of the wheelchair. "Just put your arm around my neck and…"

Carefully, utterly carefully, afraid to break his best friend, John slid one arm under his knees, the other one grabbing his shoulders.

"John…," Sherlock protested weakly.

John didn't pay attention to him. Not this time. Slowly, gently, carefully he lifted Sherlock out of the wheelchair and turned towards the bed. His arms and shoulders were aching already, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't drop his best friend. He wouldn't.

He didn't. Sherlock flinched as John put him down, maybe a bit more quickly than appropriate, and sighed as John stuffed another pillow behind his back.

"You're ice cold," he mumbled and pulled up the duvet.

"'m fine, John," Sherlock protested feebly. "Too much. I'm sorry."

Sorry. Saying that word again. There had been times when John would have given a lot to hear the words 'sorry' and 'thank you' from Sherlock's mouth, but the rate at which he was using them now was frightening. Telling him that nothing was alright yet.

John ignored him. "Sherlock, you're shivering. Why didn't you tell me you were cold?"

"Fine," Sherlock repeated mindlessly, but allowed John to grab his hands and rub them, to warm them up.

You're not, John screamed inwardly. And it's my fault, because I took you out there although you didn't want to. My fault, my fault, my fault.

"Stay here," he told Sherlock instead while he stuffed his hands beneath the covers and went to fetch Mary's extra blanket. "Don't move an inch. I'm getting a doctor."

Panic attack. Anxiety attack. Hyperventilating. Cold. Possible mild hypothermia.

It had been too early. Too early. He shouldn't have taken Sherlock out there.

"John," Sherlock's still somewhat shaky voice held him back, right before he had opened the door. "Don' need… doctor…"

John shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm afraid you do."

"No."

John rolled his eyes. "I won't believe you as long as you don't answer in full sentences. I'll be back any second."

"John."

He turned around again, to see Sherlock propped up on one shaking elbow. About to scold him and help him to lie down again, he made one step towards the bed.

"I don't need a doctor," Sherlock said, emphasising each word, but not stumbling over any syllable. John stopped dead in his tracks. "'m fine, J'hn. Please." A pause. "Stay."

x

So he stayed.

Sherlock kept shivering for at least five minutes, despite the blankets John had tucked around him, despite his rubbing Sherlock's hands.

"It's not normal," he repeated over and over again. "It's not that cold in the corridor or in the cafeteria, you shouldn't be half frozen to death…"

"'m not," Sherlock mumbled with closed eyes, the tip of his nose buried in his pillow.

"No, I know, you're fine," John muttered darkly under his breath. "That's why you were first having a panic attack and are now shivering like hell."

Sherlock shifted a tiny bit, slipping further under the covers. "S'ry," he slurred. "Too much… couldn't… my head… couldn'…"

Minutes later, he fell into an exhausted sleep, securely hidden beneath the covers.

x

Sherlock was still out cold when Mary came by in the afternoon. John told her.

"Oh God, John," she exclaimed, paling. "I had no idea… I mean, I thought it would be a good idea, for him to see something except for this room… Oh my God."

John shook his head, exhaling slowly. "It's not your fault, Mary. It was just… it was too early." He paused for a moment, thinking back. "Mary, you should have seen him. He was crying, really crying, and he… he didn't react whenever I talked to him, didn't even hear me…"

Mary threw her arms around his neck. "I'm so sorry, John," she whispered into his ear. "I…"

"Would you… would you mind if I stay here tonight?" he interrupted her. "It's just…"

Mary shook her head. "No," she answered. "Of course not. I'll stay, too, if you want me to."

John only nodded.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Feedback is, as always, highly appreciated. (Question of importance: Am I mean? I was just wondering... :))


	22. Chapter 21

To put it plainly: Thank you (again).

So, here's the next part.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

21

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes, it was dark. Dark and quiet, except for soft snoring.

Snoring. Why was there snoring… why…

Thinking about it hurt his head, hurt him hard enough to make him groan.

"Sherlock?" a voice asked immediately.

John, Sherlock's brain processed. John. It was night, so… John?

"Why're'ye here," he slurred, not feeling fully awake. And still cold, so cold…

John hesitated for a moment. John had been sleeping, so… it was night, and John was still here. John normally went home in the nights. So… worried.

"Fell asleep," John finally answered, his voice hushed. The lamp on the nightstand he switched on stung in Sherlock's eyes and made him blink.

Asleep. There was something wrong about that, something… Never mind.

Something else. A… a smell. Perfume. A brand he knew. A brand… connected to John.

"Where's Mary," he mumbled, without thinking about it.

John remained silent for a few seconds, and when Sherlock tried to wrench his eyes open a bit more, he could, blurrily, see the… baffled expression on his face. "Sent her home," John eventually replied. "She fell asleep, and I insisted…"

Sleep dulling his brain, Sherlock let his eyes close. "Mhm," he made, shifting a bit.

Until, suddenly, he realised why he had woken. "John," he said again, freeing one of his hands from the duvet and the blankets covering him, rubbing his eyes.

"Hm?"

"Need… the loo," Sherlock whispered, taking a deep breath.

John was on his feet immediately, stifling a yawn. "I'll get a nurse. I'll be back…"

Nurse. No.

"John," Sherlock interrupted him, trying to sit up. And failing. Groaning, he let his head slump back. "Toilet."

John simply stared at Sherlock for a moment. Not understanding.

"No nurse," Sherlock tried to explain. "Toilet."

Finally, it seemed to dawn on John, his expression turning from… puzzled into something else, into… shocked. "You're not going to the toilet," he stated matter-of-factly. "I _will _get a nurse."

His head. His head was hurting, so much, so much… Why was it hurting, why all the time? Why was he so… so weak, why couldn't he do anything, why…

"No," he croaked, protestingly. "Toilet."

John crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not letting you walk to the toilet. You remember what happened the last time you tried to walk a few steps?"

Weak. So weak. "John…," Sherlock repeated, moving his legs underneath the covers.

"No," John confirmed. "You blacked out, alright? Because it's too early. Because what you need right now is rest, not… not… not walking around, and after what happened in the morning…" He cut himself off, biting his lip and turning his gaze away. "No. I'm getting a nurse. You stay here. Don't move."

After what happened in the morning. Sherlock remembered, remembered it past his headache. Too many people, too much around him. His head… his head had felt like exploding, like… bursting, and John had all of a sudden disappeared, not being with Sherlock anymore, not being there to shield him from all of that…

Weak.

Transport.

Transport.

"Won'… stay here," he slurred, with a massive effort propping himself up on his right elbow, leaning heavily towards one side. His head, head… No. Concentrate.

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut as he forced his legs to move, to get rid of the covers, to touch the floor. Cold, it was cold, so cold…

"Sherlock!" John's voice, yelling at him. "What the hell are you doing? Stop that, stop it now! No, Sherlock…"

It took him seconds to realise that there were hands on his shoulders now, John's hands, steadying him against all the turning and spinning the room did. Nausea, dizziness, Sherlock's brain told him, but it wasn't helpful.

When he opened his eyes, all he wanted to do was to sink back and let John take care of everything.

Weak.

He didn't.

"Toilet, John," he forced out. "Want to…"

John hesistated for a moment longer, giving Sherlock the time to suck in greedy breaths. "Alright," he then said quietly. "But you promise me to do everything I tell you if you pass out again."

Sherlock tensed his jaw and nodded slightly. "Pr'mise," he mumbled.

"OK," John told him. "I'll support you, don't worry. I won't let you fall. Put your arm… yes."

Sherlock didn't know how it had happened, but suddenly, his arm was around John's neck again, clutching his shoulder, and he was slowly getting to his feet. His feet…

"John!" he yelped, lifting one leg a tiny bit.

"What! Sherlock, what's wrong?" John. John sounded panicked, why…

Not wrong. Fine. Standing. Was standing.

"Loo…," he forced out, staggering against John.

Bathroom. There was a bathroom in his room, with a toilet. What for, what for… Stupid. Not important.

John.

Walking.

Loo.

Sherlock attempted another step, suddenly stumbling forward without any clear intention.

"Sherl-," John exclaimed before he cut himself off, his grip on Sherlock tightening.

"'m fine," he mumbled, letting his head sag. Head. Not important. Headache. Not important. Walking. Loo.

Sherlock was drenched in sweat by the time they had reached the bathroom and shivering nonetheless. Why… Stupid.

John's hand moved too quickly for him to notice, doing something with the toilet. "Sit down," he ordered and at the same time helped Sherlock to do so.

Panting, with spots dancing in front of his eyes, Sherlock finally became aware that he was sitting on the toilet seat, still wearing his trousers. "John…," he whispered, feeling utterly ridiculous all of a sudden.

John broke into giggling. "I'm sorry," he choked out, "I'm sorry. It's just… sorry."

Attempting a weak smile, Sherlock let his head loll back. "Need… John… please."

John pulled him to his feet again, helping him to remove his trousers at least partly, and then eased him back onto the toilet seat.

"I'll turn around," he said, "but don't think I'll leave."

His head doing silly things, Sherlock found he was too tired to be embarrassed. "Fin'shed," he mumbled, allowing his eyes to close. Toilet, using a toilet, not a bottle, not a urinal, toilet, real, proper toilet…

"Hey, don't fall asleep," John's voice startled him.

"'m not," he whispered, stumbling to his feet again and allowing John to pull up his trousers.

"Come on, now," John encouraged him, taking his arm and practically leading him towards the bed again.

"'m not a child," Sherlock slurred, feeling his knees tremble beneath him. Tremble… beneath… beneath… he was standing, had been walking…

The time it took John to get him back to the bed blurred in his mind.

"John," he mumbled as soon as his head hit the pillow. "I… we… we did… it."

"Yes, you idiot," John retorted darkly and lifted his legs to the bed.

Sherlock wasn't sure if his light-headedness rooted in his headache or in his… his… excitement.

"John…," he whispered again, feeling a grin spreading over his face. "John… Tell Mary…"

Tell Mary what? Not important, Sherlock decided, allowing his fatigue to take over again. Had done well. Well. Fine. Not disappointed John. Not weak.

Fine.

Fine.

He would be fine.

x

John needed a long time to calm down again, to have his heart beating in a normal rhythm once more.

Toilet. Toilet.

Sherlock had been to the toilet. That wasn't so shocking, what had unsettled John that much was the fact that… that Sherlock had wanted to go to the toilet, had insisted, had wanted to walk. And had - given the circumstances - succeeded in the end.

Walking.

Sherlock's balance had been terribly off, staggering into John every two steps, but he had been on his feet, and he hadn't blacked out again.

Walking.

Wanting to walk.

Wanting.

Sherlock had been determined. Determined.

Not only tired, not only barely conscious, not only sick and dizzy and frail. Yes, of course, all of it, still, and probably for a long time to come, but he had… he had tried to fight it. Fight.

For the first time, Sherlock had tried to fight it. And John had seen a glimpse of his old determination - and had helped him in the end.

"'m fine, J'n," Sherlock slurred as John carefully started fumbling for his hand.

John very nearly flinched. "I thought you were asleep," he whispered, feeling his grip being returned.

"Mhm," Sherlock confirmed. "You… worry too much. 'm fine."

John only smiled.

Minutes, he could tell that Sherlock had indeed nodded off when his grip on John's hand slackened.

"No, you're not," he mumbled, softly tracing his fingers over Sherlock's short, dark hair. "You're not fine. But I do believe you're getting better."

* * *

Thank you for reading. If you feel like it, kindly leave some feedback!


	23. Chapter 22

I am sorry for the delay.

Thank you for all your comments and support and criticism!

To keep it short: Next part.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

22

* * *

Getting better.

Recovery.

They were working on that.

"How's physiotherapy going?" Greg asked when he stopped by for a visit. "Got a bit of colour back, he, haven't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resting on his pillows.

"Busy week?" John asked, pointing towards Lestrade's crumpled suit.

Greg only shrugged. "Case of murder. Investigating took time. You know…" He looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment. "You can have the case files, if you want," he offered Sherlock. "If you're bored, I mean. Imagine there's not much going on here. To just… I dunno… look over them. If we've got everything right."

John could tell by the way Sherlock narrowed his eyes that he was barely able to follow what Greg was saying, that headache and probably nausea were getting at him again.

Headache. His headaches had been getting worse over the course of the last few days, increasing in intensity. It had been three days since Sherlock's first journey to the toilet, and in two of the three evenings his headache, migraine-like, had been bad enough to require a rather large dose of medication until he could find any sleep.

"' course," Sherlock mumbled now, subconsciously lifting a hand towards his temple and rubbing. Headache then, indeed.

Greg started beaming. "Really? Great. I mean, er… I'm glad you're better."

Sherlock attempted a smile which rather looked like a grimace. "Thank… you," he mumbled before closing his eyes.

"Headache?" Greg mouthed, and John nodded.

"Worse?" he then wanted to know in a hushed voice, and John nodded again.

"Can hear you," Sherlock mumbled from the bed, his voice lacking any kind of annoyance.

Greg managed to look guilty for a moment whereas John simply sighed. He knew that Greg was thoroughly stretching his competences, even doing something illegal if he allowed Sherlock to read official police files, but he did it nonetheless. He did it because he, too, wanted Sherlock to recover.

And most of the time, it was working.

x

"Wheelchair or crutches?" John asked in the next morning while Sherlock was nibbling on his toast, looking all pale and pasty.

"Wheelchair," he mumbled. "'m tired."

John nodded only curtly and grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown from the back of his chair.

"'m ready," Sherlock claimed only seconds later.

"You haven't eaten your toast," Mary reminded him, pointing at the tray. Seconds later, she smirked. "I just wanted to spare John having to say that."

Sherlock managed a weak grin. "Not hungry," he muttered.

John shot Mary a glance, frowning. Half of the toast, at least. Not too bad.

"Shall I help you?" he offered while handing Sherlock the dressing gown.

"'s fine," his friend replied, slowly manouevring one of his arms through the sleeve while John tucked it loosely around his other shoulder, with the IV line still in place.

"Don't forget the socks," Mary reminded them, beginning to search in her hand bag. "It's cold outside."

To John's worry, Sherlock allowed Mary to slip the thick socks above the pair he was already wearing without any protests. Really not feeling well today, he decided. He would have to make sure that the physiotherapy session was going to be a short one. As would the walk have to be.

"Ready?" he wanted to know, causing Sherlock to nod curtly.

Slowly, he shuffled to the edge of the bed, getting to his feet on his own. One trip to the toilet on his own feet each day had improved his ability to try to stand.

Only seconds later, he was swaying on his feet, prompting John to grip his arm and support him for the few steps towards the wheelchair, Mary shoving the drip stand along.

"The blanket!" she exclaimed once Sherlock was seated, grabbed it from the bed and tucked it around his legs. "Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly," Sherlock mumbled. "Fine."

x

Mary accompanied them to the reception and then excused herself, ready for work. One of them had to work, John knew, if he didn't, if he spent all of his time at the hospital.

He should try to find something, a job somewhere, but… but all he wanted was to be with Sherlock, to make sure his friend was alright.

"Anywhere you want to go?" he asked Sherlock after Mary had left.

"Not cafeteria," was all Sherlock said. "Too many people."

So John simply wheeled Sherlock around in a few less frequented corridors, finally stopping in front of an empty row of chairs.

"There's something we have to talk about," he announced after he had taken a seat.

Sherlock looked at him directly, but all John noticed was how worn he still looked.

"You're doing a lot of physiotherapy," he began rather awkwardly, "and it helps you to get better. Physically. Your doctors have noticed, of course, that you still have trouble with talking, can't remember certain words and only seldomly use full sentences… We think it might be useful if you agreed to seeing a speech therapist. He or she is a professional, they could…"

"Don' need that," Sherlock replied, frowning.

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, let me finish, please. I know it bothers you, and I want you to get better, too. I am sure it would help you. You could give it a try, don't you think?"

Sherlock started massaging his temple. John of course didn't fail to notice the still present tremble in his fingers. "Don' need…," he repeated, his voice sounding small. "John. I can talk. It only… it takes … energy. It is exhausting. And… and… I must think, and thinking… hurts. Sometimes."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed. "It's fine, Sherlock, really. It's not a problem for me, it's just… I think it might help you. And don't tell me you're fine!"

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. "OK," he answered.

"OK?" John echoed, dumbfounded. "Sherlock, is something wrong? Do you feel hot, cold, anything…?" If he agreed so easily, then…

"OK," Sherlock confirmed. "'ll think about… it. But, John, I don' need a spee… speech thera… ther… therapist. See?"

John felt a smile creep to his face, too. "OK," he agreed, squeezing Sherlock's hand again.

x

He could tell that Sherlock was relieved when they were back in his room and he could lie down again.

"Headache?" he wanted to know.

"Mh," Sherlock made, closing his eyes. "Again."

"Try to sleep for a bit, hm?" John suggested, walking over to the window and drawing the blinds close.

"Can't," Sherlock mumbled. "Too much in my head…"

Bloody headache. John wished with every fibre of his being that he and Sherlock could switch places.

"Do you want anything against the pain?" he wanted to know.

It took a while until Sherlock answered. "No," he whispered. "Makes head too fuzzy…"

There wasn't much John could do. Sherlock kept tossing in his bed, restless and obviously not comfortable. The wet cloth John retrieved from the bathroom after a few minutes seemed to help a tiny bit, but didn't cause Sherlock to relax. Neither did John stroking his hand.

John felt exhausted himself when Sherlock finally fell into a restless sleep, and when the nurse appeared with lunch, he carefully untangled his hand from Sherlock's and begged her quietly to leave again, to let Sherlock sleep.

x

Sherlock still appeared utterly groggy when John had to wake him in the afternoon, to do some exercising. But he didn't complain, did - or tried to do - everything the therapist told him, and after walking two times around his bed he was allowed to lie down again.

"Only stumbled… into you… twice," he muttered while he attempted to get comfortable. "Good, isn' it?"

John smiled and took care of the duvet. "One and a half times," he corrected. "The second time was partly my fault. I distracted you."

"Mh," Sherlock replied intellegibly.

"No, really, you're doing well," John encouraged him, and it was true. Surprisingly so, but Sherlock often was no longer clinging to John as if his very life depended on it, but rather carried his weight himself, and his balance… well, it had not got worse. "Two weeks and you'll chase after Lestrade's criminals again," he joked.

Sherlock huffed quietly. "Not sure… 'll ever do… again," he slurred, barely awake by now, thanks to the sedative a doctor had given him after physiotherapy, to help him rest and recover from his headaches.

Although he didn't even know if Sherlock had still been aware of what he had been saying, mumbling, it broke John's heart. Because it had sounded so flat, so hopeless, so like… giving up.

Sherlock wasn't about to give up, John knew that, he had fought his way out of a coma, was fighting a battle with his body and his mind now which took almost everything he had out of him, was struggling each day to… improve. And yet… the fear was always there. The fear that some day, Sherlock would simply decided to give in. To let it all go. To fade.

Softly tracing two fingers over the lines on Sherlock's forehead, John swallowed dryly. "Of course you will," he mumbled. "Together with me."

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	24. Chapter 23

Thank you for your continued support and the very kind reviews you leave!

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

23

* * *

Sherlock knew that John wasn't happy about his choice.

"Cafeteria," he had answered when John had asked him where he wanted to go today, right after Mrs Hudson had left early in the morning, having fussed about him, increasing, no doubt despite her intention, his headache.

Cafeteria. John wasn't happy about this, no, not after what had happened the last time.

Sherlock knew all of that, saw it in John's face and the way his eyebrows had moved. And yet, it had been his decision.

His stomach clenched in fear as they slowly approached the cafeteria, John wheeling him, as always.

Cafeteria. Cafeteria. Many people. Too many people.

He still remembered the last time, how everything had screamed at him and jumped at him, how he hadn't been able to draw breath, how…

Curling his fingers around the blanket John had spread on his lap, he attempted to control his breathing.

"Sherlock."

John. John's voice. In front of him. Why in front? Why… Slowly, Sherlock dared to open his eyes again.

John was kneeling in front of him, staring at him with his so intense, so worried eyes… "Sherlock," he repeated. "You know you don't have to do this. We can go somewhere else."

Sherlock sucked in a greedy breath and commanded his brain to be quiet. "'s fine," he mumbled, pressing his eyes shut.

John hesitated for a moment before he softly brushed his hand over Sherlock's tense ones, then got to his feet and resumed his pushing the wheelchair.

"John?" Sherlock addressed him again, opening his eyes. Stupid, he was feeling stupid. And yet… he had to ask. "You… you'll be with me, won' you?"

The world stopped around them. John appeared in front of him a second time, crouching down and gripping his hands. Warm, they felt so warm in contrast to Sherlock's. Warm…

"Always," John told him in a hushed voice.

Sherlock exhaled.

"You still sure?" John asked him, tentatively.

Sherlock bit his lip and managed a tiny nod. "Yes," he whispered, dreading the moment when John would be gone again, when he would disappear behind the wheelchair and leaving him on his own to face… to face everything. Only that John wasn't gone. John was still here, with him, still…

"I won't go away," John reassured him as if he had heard his thoughts. "OK?"

"OK," Sherlock repeated, feeling even more stupid. John got to his feet, still looking at him with worry, and vanished. Stupid, stupid. Just other people. Nothing dangerous. And yet, the feeling of the last time wouldn't go away, wouldn't leave him alone, the feeling of being overwhelmed, of too much around him, of choking, suffocating, alone, without John…

No. Calm.

x

His relief when they had reached the cafeteria and John had taken the seat opposite of him, resting his forearms on the table, was immense.

"Alright?" John asked him quietly, still worried.

Loud. Loud. Many… loud.

John.

Focusing on John's nose and nothing else, Sherlock nodded weakly. "'m fine," he mumbled.

John did not correct him, and somehow, Sherlock was thankful for that.

"You want anything?" John asked him, bending forward.

Want… Sherlock flinched at the sound of someone putting their mug back to the saucer. "Coffee," he whispered, trying to take a deep breath.

John's hand found his, all of a sudden. Sherlock let go of the blanket and crushed John's fingers instead. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," John told him, "no coffee for you. Not yet. Do you want… tea? Or juice? Orange juice?"

Inhaling shakily, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "Juice," he mumbled. Loud, so loud…

The pressure on his hand increased. "I'll have to get up," John reminded him.

Stupid. Stupid. Of course.

"Will you… will you be OK?"

No, he wouldn't. Without John, he would… "Mh," Sherlock simply made.

"I'll be back in a moment," John promised before his hands disappeared.

"Mh," Sherlock repeated, trying not to hear the woman to his right talking about her granddaughter, trying not to look at the man to his left, his arm in a sling, from an accident, apparently, going by… No. Stop.

Another man, talking, women, men, talking, gesturing, moving around. Talking, talking so much. About other people, too many people, about their sons and daughters and sisters and brothers and their lives and…

No. No. No, no, no… Shut up. Shut up.

Still talking, still being loud, still being noisy, still…

"…rlock… Sher… look… at me…"

Within a split-second, Sherlock became aware of his ragged breathing, his hammering heart and of John, kneeling in front of him again, holding his face in both hands.

"Look at me, Sherlock," he said.

John. John. John. Concentrate on John. No-one else, not the girl babbling about…

"Sherlock."

John. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. John.

The waitress was wearing this dress because…

No.

"John," he gasped, suddenly realising that he had gripped the edge of the table with both shaking hands. Other people… "Talk…," he whispered. "John, please…"

It was easier to focus on John when he could hear his voice, when all he could hear and see and feel was John. He didn't pay attention to what John was saying, all that was important was… John.

John.

Sherlock felt exhausted by the time he deemed it safe to release his grip on the table. "John," he whispered. "I… thank you."

John kept staring at him for a moment. "Better?" he asked, not letting go of Sherlock's face.

"Mhm," was all he could force out for an answer, taking another breath. Coffee and juice on the table, he noticed distantly. John had gone and had come back, hurriedly putting the mug and the glass down, coming for him. "You… I… not… won't fall apart… if… let go," he mumbled, stumbling over the words.

John's hands disappeared slowly, and after a few moments of staring at Sherlock, he hesitatingly took his seat again, clenching his hands around the mug. "Do you want me to take you back?" he wanted to know, carefully.

Focus on John, focus on John, focus on John.

"No," Sherlock mumbled, feeling ridiculous. Just the cafeteria, just… nothing dangerous, nothing to be afraid of, to panic because of, not… John. "… OK now."

John didn't appear convinced, but he didn't protest. Taking a tentative sip out of his mug, he started to chuckle. "I think I've had more physical contact in the past month with you than with my own wife," he muttered into his mug.

For a moment, Sherlock felt a familiar emotion, felt this… sting… before he realised that John was… joking. John was feeling happy. "People… will talk," he croaked, staring into his glass.

The next instant, John's gaze was on him, fixing him. "I don't care."

Sherlock smiled.

x

They were on the way back to Sherlock's room, John pushing the wheelchair and Sherlock slowly walking - walking, he had insisted after drinking the glass of juice -, slowly and rather clumsily, in his opinion, steadying himself against the wall from time to time.

Not just once John opened his mouth as if to say something, but never said it, in the end, always keeping his eyes on Sherlock. He didn't say anything because he didn't have any breath left he could have used for talking.

Sherlock's legs started to wobble even more when they rounded the next corner, and he stumbled into the wall. Without complaining, he took John's outstretched hand and allowed himself to be supported.

Both of them flinched when a voice suddenly appeared from behind them. "My dear brother and Doctor Watson. What a pleasant surprise to meet you here, up and walking."

Sherlock felt John's grip tighten as his brother rounded them and was greeted by John with a simple "Mycroft."

Biting his tongue and sagging a tiny bit against John, Sherlock didn't say anything. The last time he had tried to pronounce his brother's name had ended in 'My', and he really did not need this embarrassment a second time. And going by how he felt right now, dizzy and weak and cold and… it would not be successful this time. Reaching out for the wall with one hand and holding his breath at the same time, he did everything to stay upright.

"John, I think your patient requires attention," Mycroft addressed John all of a sudden, ignoring the supposedly angry look Sherlock was directing at him. Supposedly angry - he found he couldn't muster the strength for anything else, at least not if he did not want to collapse directly to the floor.

John's head shot around in a split-second, his hand letting go of the wheelchair and gripping both of Sherlock's arms instead. "Don't hold your breath. Slowly," he said while carefully helping Sherlock to sit down, pulling the blanket back over his lap. "OK?"

"Mhm," Sherlock replied, exhaling. Breathe. He had to breathe, he reminded himself.

John looked at him as if he was about to say something else, but Mycroft interrupted him. "Might I have a word with my brother?" he asked John. "If you don't mind."

John hesitated. "I don't think…"

"'m fine, John," Sherlock had to interject, shifting in the wheelchair. "Really."

"I'll take my brother back to his room," Mycroft suggested.

Almost abruptly, John got to his feet. "Alright. Well. I'm off… to the cafeteria, so, Sherlock, if you need me…"

He tried to nod.

Mycroft took hold of the handles of the wheelchair, John turned the other way before he stopped once more. "Oh, and don't forget to reconnect the IV line."

Sherlock, with his eyes closed, heard Mycroft's voice answer, disembodied. "I won't."

* * *

Thank you for reading.

Originally, this chapter had been intended to be a tiny bit different, longer and containing Mycroft. As it got too lengthy... I decided to split. Next time, then. (Sunday, probably, since I won't be at home for most of the weekend.)

As always, I'm looking forward to feedback.


	25. Chapter 24

Thank you for your support!

Next part.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

24

* * *

Sherlock gritted his teeth and heaved himself up, out of the wheelchair. He hadn't even made one staggering step when he noticed the floor coming closer, closer, closer… Before someone caught him and supported him until he could lie back against the pillows.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "Brother dear," he commented while pulling up the covers. "John would tear me to pieces if I let you hit your head again."

Sherlock remained quiet when Mycroft reconnected the IV line, rather professionally. "Why're you here?" he finally wanted to know, carefully trying to turn to his side.

Nothing in Mycroft's face changed. "You are my brother," he simply said.

Sherlock huffed. "Senti…," he began, groaning when his tossing sent a jab of pain through his head.

"It would seem so, yes," Mycroft confirmed. "I take it is fine with John, isn't it?"

All Sherlock was willing to do was to press his eyes shut. "Wan' to talk 'bout John?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," his brother answered bluntly.

Sherlock tried to bury his nose in his pillow. "He hasn' done… anythin' wrong," he mumbled, only to be rewarded with Mycroft chuckling. "I am aware," he replied. "He never would, not when it comes to you, brother dear. I know he is taking good care of you." When Mycroft paused for a moment, Sherlock tried to concentrate in order to find out what his brother wanted from him.

"You are getting better, I have been told," were his brother's next words.

Better. Brilliant topic, now, after his legs had started to feel like… like jelly. "That's not… 'bout John," he murmured, wrenching his eyes open again. (Alternately: Why… would you… care")

Mycroft sighed and took a seat in the nearest chair. "I am very pleased, brother dear, to be able to express my enormous relief regarding your gradual recovery, as well as my deepest gratitude towards your dear Doctor Watson."

Sherlock's head was spinning because of Mycroft's words. "Why're you here," he repeated. Using the brief pause his brother made, he turned further to his side. "And he's not… 'my dear doctor'," he started to protest. "He's married, and…"

"And yet, John Watson would do anything for you," Mycroft concluded, swiftly, without hesitation. Sherlock flinched a tiny bit. "Anything at all."

For a few seconds, Sherlock could hear nothing except for his own blood rushing through his ears. Anything… anything at all.

"Your physical recovery is progressing, I assume?" Mycroft suddenly changed the topic and started to tap his umbrella on the floor. "As I said before, you, up and walking, in company of John Watson. Be assured that, if there should be any need, the best physical therapists as well as other professionals are available for you as soon as you mention it to me. Or, of course, as soon as your physical or mental condition should require further attention."

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lip, in order to stifle a yawn. "'m fine," he mumbled as soon as he deemed it safe. "John can… Don' need help…"

His brother's voice was calm as always. "Oh, you do need help. Do not try to lie to me, Sherlock. You need help, more help than John can provide for. I will, of course, arrange for rehabilitation and whatever form of therapy you might require, once you have been discharged, and I assure you that you will be assisted by the very best therapists of the…"

"John can do that," Sherlock mumbled. "I don' need…"

"John Watson, brother dear," Mycroft interrupted him, "is a doctor, not a physical therapist."

Sherlock feebly shook his head. "Could do it," he muttered. "John could…"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Oh, no doubt he could. The question is, I think, whether he should."

Sherlock flinched and, instinctively, held his breath. Scolding, John would scold him for that. John…

"I believe John lost about three pounds in the past month, and I can tell by the way he is walking that his shoulder and his leg must be hurting him," Mycroft went on, sounding conversational, unfazed by Sherlock's reaction. "Witnessing your condition and your recovery apparently does not do his health any good."

John. John John John. Sherlock exhaled shakily and attempted a frown. "What d'you want," he muttered for the third time, doing his best not to sound too pathetic.

"John Watson," Mycroft began again, "would do anything for you, as I mentioned before. The one thing he would not do, however, is to force you to agree to something you do not wish to do. Brother dear, he loves you, and this…"

Sherlock's throat constricted at his brother's words. "Not gay," he mumbled out of reflex, trying to entangle his hand from the IV line before realising what Mycroft had said. And who had said it. John wasn't gay, John wasn't…

"I didn't say that," Mycroft responded, composed as always, gripping his hand and assissting him.

"Mh," Sherlock only replied, not wanting to listen any further.

All of a sudden, the tapping of Mycroft's umbrella stopped. "I can tell that you are not fine, brother dear, and that it is absolutely childish of you to refuse help."

"My…," Sherlock muttered, forcing his eyes open, the world spinning around him.

"The frequence of your blinking as well as your still trembling fingers tell me that the headache you have been suffering from for at least two days, judging by your apparent general exhaustion and your haggard appearance as well as John Watson's rigidity and his sudden lack of personal hygiene, has not decreased, but rather worsened, leaving you tired and easily to be irritated," Mycroft continued mercilessly. Sherlock's head kept pounding, true to his brother's words. "Your uneasiness, your discomfort right now, furthermore highly suggest that you reciprocate John's… rather firm feeling of fondness, and that you…"

Mycroft fell silent all of a sudden. Seconds later, he cleared his throat, his eyes staring at Sherlock's duvet. Sherlock did not understand.

"I have always told you that caring was not an advantage," Mycroft finally uttered in a quiet voice. "A mistake, in fact, a grave one."

When he raised his gaze, his eyes piercing, Sherlock didn't know what to do. "Why're telling... me this," he mumbled.

"I have made a mistake," Mycroft stated.

For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he was still able to swallow. If he was still able to move. Mycroft, what was Mycroft doing here…?

"You are my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft went on, "and although I do not possess Doctor Watson's… open-mindedness, I… I would highly appreciate it if you were putting effort in getting better, if you were to accept the help and support you are offered, even if it does entail seeing a speech therapist or doubling your amount of physiotherapy sessions. Whereas your…"

Sherlock's attention trailed off as Mycroft continued talking, continued _rambling_, something he never did, something Sherlock could not understand. Mycroft, talking like that, talking…

His brother's voice abruptly pulled him back into reality. "I am reasonably sure that there is only one thing he might ask of you now."

He. He. John.

Sherlock inhaled feebly when Mycroft paused again. "What?" he whispered, feeling… feeling… stupid, yes. And alone. Utterly alone.

Mycroft hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded hoarse. "Let others help you, for once. Do not refuse my help. Do not push _him _away. And try to repay him for what he has done and is doing for you - try to get better. You do want to keep your dear doctor, don't you? So, do not, to say it in John's words, give up."

Sherlock wanted to utter a snarky remark, wanted to tease Mycroft as he normally did, wanted to say something clever… but he couldn't. He could only think of John.

"Why…," he mumbled, his throat feeling narrow. "Why're… telling me… this?"

Mycroft smiled a tiny bit, and for the first time Sherlock realised that his brother was actually _worried_. Worried. Just like John. Worried... "Because he would never tell you himself that frankly, and you, brother dear, are too blind to see. And because he would never make you do anything you do not want to, such as seeing a speech therapist. I am not that… cautious."

Sherlock felt as if he couldn't breathe. "My…," he choked out, not even trying to pronounce his brother's full name. "Could… I… would… My… John?"

Mycroft's chair screeched when he got up. "I will get him," he said without needing further reminding.

When Mycroft had already reached the door, Sherlock addressed him again, tiredly propping himself up on one elbow. "Mycr…," he began.

"Yes?" His brother stopped dead in his tracks immediately, slowly turning around. For a moment, Sherlock did not know what to say. I care, too? I did not realise that you did? Gained weight again?

He pressed his eyes shut and exhaled.

"I… thank… you."

Mycroft nodded curtly and smiled. "You're welcome, brother dear."

xxx

John nervously twisted the spoon between his fingers.

After Mycroft and Sherlock had left, he had gone back to the cafeteria, ordering another cup of coffee, and had phoned Mary. And now… and now he was sitting and waiting. Nervously.

When Mycroft finally approached him, his umbrella in his hand as always, John let out a sigh of relief. "So did you…," he began, feeling rather awkward. "…did you talk to him about what you wanted to?"

Mycroft studied him with an intense gaze, appearing unnaturally pale to John. "Yes," he simply replied. "He has asked for you."

John was on his feet before he even realised it. "I'd… er… I'd better be off, then," he said, biting his lip.

Mycroft nodded. "I have not told him, John," he then stated, fiddling with his umbrella. "And I… believe it appropriate to express my enormous gratitude to you. For everything you are doing for my brother."

John tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "How could I not?" was what he settled on.

Mycroft nodded again, sternly. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

x

John hurried on the way to Sherlock's room although he knew that it was not necessary. Sherlock was fine, utterly fine, nothing would happen to him.

When he entered, quietly and carefully, he was barely able to see Sherlock, huddled into his covers, his eyes closed. Strangely enough, he, too, looked more pallid than before. What had they been talking about?

"Sherlock?" he whispered, slowly lowering himself to the edge of the bed. No need to wake him if he was asleep already.

"John," Sherlock replied, his eyes flickering open. "Di' Mycr… talk to you, too…," he slurred.

Busy with checking the IV line - connected rather professionally -, he nodded. "Shortly."

Sherlock shifted a tiny bit and promptly got tangled in the IV line. "Careful," John reminded him, gripping his hand and entangling him.

"John, I…" Sherlock's grey eyes stared at him. "You… look tired," he finally mumbled.

He looked tired? John couldn't help but had to chuckle. "Says the one in the hospital bed, close to falling asleep at four o'clock in the afternoon," he replied.

A grin appeared on Sherlock's face. "Says the one who… can read your mili… tary career in your… face and your leg and your broth… brother's drinkin'… h'bits in… y'r… m'bile… phone…"

John was stunned for a moment. "Right," he then replied, a smile tucking at his lips.

"Tired…," Sherlock repeated, "…and… d'you… have the night…mares… often?"

John froze. Nightmares. He had never told Sherlock, not a single word. He hadn't told anyone, in fact, although Mary knew, of course. Awkwardly, he attempted to clear his throat. "How…," he began, cutting himself off.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "I said… t'red, an' you had this… expression… on your face… know that, J'hn… had it… be…fore… after Afgha… Afghan…"

John squeezed his hand, not knowing what to say. "You're right," he finally decided on. "I do have nightmares. Rather frequently, in fact."

Sherlock appeared barely half-awake by now. "'bout what," he slurred.

About you, dead, would have been the correct answer. The correct answer John didn't give. "It's not important," he avoided the topic instead.

Sherlock wrenched his eyes open again, having fallen shut earlier. "Has to be… some…thin' sc… scaring… if you can' find… sleep… rel… lated to death, probab…bly…"

"Don't you think you could try to find out tomorrow? I can see that you're more asleep than awake," John reminded him softly.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered weakly as they closed again. "'m not t'red," he mumbled.

John chuckled again. "Neither am I," he replied, feeling Sherlock's fingers grip his hand reassuringly.

"John," Sherlock began again, his voice barely above a whisper. "You… go home. Sleep."

John could practically sense the effort it took Sherlock to keep talking. "I will if you do," he answered.

"Nigh'mares, John…," Sherlock muttered, yawning. "'bout what… 'bout…"

"Good night, Sherlock," John decided to interrupt his best friend. "I'll be back in the morning."

"Mhm," Sherlock made, his grip loosening again. "Night, J'hn…"

John remained in exactly the same position while Sherlock's breathing slowly evened out, while his hand became limp and the lines in his face disappeared to some extent. This day had been exhausting, John could tell, so Sherlock would sleep through the night. Hopefully without nightmares and any other disturbance.

x

Mary was cooking dinner by the time he came home.

"Hadn't expected you so soon," she greeted him while staring at whatever was in the oven.

John shrugged off his jacket and let himself sink onto their sofa. For a moment, he listened to Mary rummaging in the kitchen. "Mary?" he then called out. "Do you think I look tired?"

The noises from the kitchen disappeared, and Mary approached John, sitting down on his lap. "What's wrong, John?" she asked.

John buried his face in her hair. "Sherlock told me I looked tired," he finally admitted.

Mary remained perfectly silent for a few moments. "And now you're shocked?" she wanted to know.

Shocked… Was he? No. Not really. Maybe this was only the first time that he did in fact realise how much the past weeks had taken out of him. How much his entire life was focused on Sherlock now.

"I don't know," he mumbled into her hair. "It's just… I want it to be over. I want it to be as it was… before. Before his accident."

Finally, Mary turned around, resting his arms around his neck. "Me, too, John. But it's not possible. We will have to deal with everything as it is now, and we will move on, eventually. You will start looking for a job, Sherlock will be fine on his own again, he maybe will take cases again, we will be together…"

John sneezed. "He's my best friend, Mary," he whispered. "My best friend." His heart clenched painfully. "I…"

"I know," she whispered. "I met you while you were thinking Sherlock was dead, remember? And you didn't look well. From the moment we started getting to know each other better, from the moment you told me about your former flatmate and how he committed suicide right in front of you… I knew that he had meant a lot to you. And still did. And when he came back, you were… different. You had been getting better, of course, but once he was back, I finally realised how you were supposed to be. And it made me happy, and willing to accept that there would always be a third participant in our marriage. And… it's OK."

John exhaled, unable to say anything past the lump in his throat.

"But I might require more attention once Sherlock is back on his feet," she whispered gently, kissing him.

John nodded, breathing in her scent and trying to relax, grateful that she had not formed a question, but a certainty. Not if, but when. "I'm sorry," he finally mumbled. "It's… I feel like being torn."

Mary's soft exhaling tickled his neck. "I know. Don't worry. It'll be fine."

This night was the first one since ages that John managed to sleep close to soundly, holding Mary tight all night, feeling her reassuring company.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Any thoughts?


	26. Chapter 25

Thank you. Still.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

25

* * *

Progress.

The doctors had said he was making good progress, but Sherlock certainly didn't feel like it.

Progress.

He still slept far too much for his liking, nodding off before John left and waking, most of the times, after he had returned in the next morning.

Even when he was awake, his brain was… fuzzy. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't think. Couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't think…

One look. He had taken exactly one look at the files Lestrade had brought over, one look reminding him of his headache and of how he wouldn't be able to see through anything anyway. And he didn't care, not really. Instead, he simply went back to sleep.

Progress.

Truth to be told, Sherlock didn't remember the very first days after… after he had woken up. Not really. There were vague memories of John, of John telling him that everything was alright, of John being there, and then, later, different memories of John, telling him that he had been sick and that he was going to be fine and that he didn't have to worry… But nothing solid. No solid memories.

In comparison to his state from back then, he mused while John was flicking through a magazine he clearly wasn't interested in, one could call it progress. But a slow one.

John was still worried, Sherlock could tell by now, solely by the fact how tense his shoulders were while simply sitting in the uncomfortable chair. Worried. Mycroft's words…

Worried…

Sherlock blinked sleepily. Worried…

x

He realised that he had dozed off again when his eyes shot open, accompanied by a heavy inhale.

John's gaze was on him, his magazine forgotten. "Hey," he said softly. "Napped long enough?"

Groaning, Sherlock rubbed his eyes and tried to focus past his headache. "Didn' wan' to…," he mumbled, not being able to stifle a yawn.

John slowly got up from his chair and walked to the window. "You haven't missed anything," he told Sherlock. "Uneventful here, as always."

Sherlock directed his eyes to the white ceiling, sighing. And realising that he was still tired. Stupid. Stupid. Always tired. Always…

Worried, his brain returned to where it had taken off. John was worried.

Worried.

Sherlock rememberd the last evening, hazily though, but he did remember. He had not felt normal the entire day, but had kept his mouth shut, doing physiotherapy, trying to walk, eating lunch and dinner. In the evening, he had needed the loo, stumbled there with John's help, feeling utterly… miserable, everything turning and spinning around him, and… and all had gone black.

The next thing he recalled close to clearly had been John's face, staring at him in horror, slapping him and holding him. "Elevated temperature," he had mumbled. "Collapse…"

Doctors had come in, after John had somehow carried - apparently, although again Sherlock couldn't remember - him to the bed, annoying him, prodding him, asking him weird questions. Until John had thankfully told them out.

Worried.

John should not be worried. He should not worry John.

Sherlock's… episode of vomiting later that night had not made it any better, and although he felt fine now, he could tell that John wasn't convinced. As John wasn't convinced of his making progress either.

Tiresome. It was tiresome.

Sherlock attempted to suppress another yawn, and failed again.

"Still tired?" John's voice brought him back to reality.

He didn't bother with a proper answer. "Mh," was all he mumbled. Tired, tired, tired… all the time. Stupid. All the time. Why?

John appeared right beside his bed, looking down at him. "You could sleep again, you know. As I said, you won't miss anything. And if you don't feel well…"

Don't feel well.

Sherlock heaved himself to one elbow with a huge effort. "'m fine," he forced out, blinking the dizziness away. "Don' wan' to sleep." His eyes darted across the room until he noticed the wheelchair. "Goin' for… walk?"

xxx

John's lips curved into a weak smile as he took a seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock in the wheelchair, huddled into two blankets, wearing a jumper Mary had bought for him, additionally to his dressing gown.

"Still tired?" he asked again, stretching out his legs.

Sherlock only huffed. "'m always tired," he mumbled, sounding annoyed.

John chose not to comment on that. Annoyed. Sounding annoyed. There was something about Sherlock, the way he behaved, the way he looked and sounded… Frustrated, John came up with, frustrated with himself and with his slow progress. Frustrated that he was unable to do anything except for resting and sleeping. Not that he was well enough to do much else, John added in his thoughts.

But yet… it wasn't… it wasn't good. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock needed something to distract him, something that reminded him of why he was working so hard to get better.

Biting his lips, John knew he had to come to a decision, concerning a topic he had pondered for a while now.

So then. It was about time, probably.

"You still want to go outside?" he disrupted the silence minutes later.

Sherlock turned his head towards John, looked at him, almost questioningly. "Outside?" he echoed, his surprise showing on his face.

John shrugged, careful to have his face betray nothing of his inner struggle. Not well enough, a part of him screamed. It's time, the other one said. "Well, your temperature's back to normal, and since I don't think you've caught anything, and because it is what you have been asking me for days now… If you want to."

His friend's colourless lips formed a frail grin. "Outside?" he repeated, and this time, John nodded. "Outside."

x

It was colder than John had anticipated, but the sun was warm and he was rather pleased about their position on the park bench.

"Are you cold?" he wanted to know, looking at Sherlock.

"How could I?" Sherlock retorted, removing his hands from underneath the blanket. "I'm practi…cally buried beneath… clothes."

John chuckled softly to himself. Funnily enough, Sherlock was right, John had made sure of that. John's jacket additionally to the jumper, another two blankets, drawn across his shoulders, a scarf, a hat and gloves. Warm enough, hopefully.

They sat together in silence, John simply enjoying the warm sun on his face and listening to Sherlock's calm and deep breaths. Breathing. So perfectly normal. And here he was, glad about each and every one of his friend's inhales, glad that it had become normal again.

Squirming a tiny bit, he finally turned his head sideways. "Sherlock…," he began slowly, hesitating.

"Hm?" Sherlock made, his eyes closed, the sun illuminating his pale features. All of a sudden, John felt like calling out loud, voicing his sudden joy, voicing his luck, dancing and jumping around.

Before he could think about it again, before Sherlock had the time to oppose, John's arm reached out, towards Sherlock's neck, beneath the woollen scarf tightly wrapped around it, feeling for his pulse.

Steady and strong.

Perfect.

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't even open his eyes.

John counted every beat until he was sure his own heart had adopted the same rhythm, was beating in tact with Sherlock's. And still, he didn't let go.

"I could hear you, you know," Sherlock suddenly said, his voice dark. "It was black, but you… you were there. You were there."

John's throat narrowed considerably. "I…," he began.

Beat.

"You…" Sherlock cleared his throat, John could feel it vibrating through his fingertips. "You were there, and you… you gave me something to… It was your voice… that fought off the darkness 'round me, and I… I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't…"

By the time Sherlock trailed off, his pulse slightly faster than before, John found himself unable to breathe.

And I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't…

Although John was fully aware of what Sherlock had intended to say, he didn't even want to consider this possibility. Not waking up. Coma. Brain death, maybe.

Beat.

Alive. Awake.

Beat.

Strong and steady.

Simply concentrating on the soft thud beneath his fingertips, John pressed his eyes shut. "You… you were dead, Sherlock," he whispered, the fear back again all of a sudden. "You flatlined. Your heart stopped, and for a few seconds or minutes or… I don't even know how long… you were dead. Dead, Sherlock. Dead…"

The pulsating did not stop.

For a few seconds, John could hear nothing except for the wind in the trees.

"But I am not, John," Sherlock reminded him, his voice soft.

John opened his eyes, staring into Sherlock's, feeling his pulse. "No," he whispered. "But it was close, so close…"

Sherlock's left hand found his right, somehow, and as soon as John felt the tentative touch, he squeezed it firmly, clinging to it.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his eyes still fixed on John's. "I'm OK. I'm OK."

OK. OK, not fine. Serious, then.

John inhaled shakily. "I know," he muttered. "I know."

It took ages until John was composed enough to stop feeling close to tears.

They just sat in silence, listening to the other one's breaths, not talking.

By the time John dared remove his fingers from Sherlock's carotid artery and look at his best friend, he could sense that Sherlock was feeling uncomfortable.

"What?" he wanted to know, frowning. What was wrong?

Biting his lip - something John had never seen Sherlock do before -, his best friend began again, tentatively: "What…," he mumbled, sounding careful. "What would have happen'd if… if I hadn't woken, if there had been no chance… of recove… covery? What…"

At the thought alone, haunting him again, John's very blood froze in his veins. Vegetative state. Brain death. Irreversible brain damage. Not waking up from coma. And now Sherlock was asking him after that. He wondered if he had been able to do that, to end it, to tell the doctors to switch off all machines. If he had been able to end Sherlock's life. No chance of recovery. There was always a chance, probably, of waking up, of improvement. Could he…

"John?" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

John shuddered and rested his palm against Sherlock's warm neck. "What would you do?" he wanted to know, staring into Sherlock's eyes. "If it was me, in this situation?"

His best friend did not say anything, only turned his gaze away. Silence was all that followed. Nothing. Then, finally, looking at John again, his eyes… glassy, Sherlock said: "It wouldn't be me. Mary…"

Painfully aware of how tightly Sherlock was clutching his hand, and how equally tightly he was returning the grip, John shook his head: "Yes, but if it was you?" he insisted. "If it was you, in this situation? Could you do it?"

John could count Sherlock's breaths in the continuing silence.

"I don't know," he finally mumbled, so quietly that John almost didn't understand him. But once he had heard, it was enough.

Resting his hand on Sherlock's cheek instead of his neck, he nodded, his eyes feeling moist. "It's OK," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock had pressed his eyes shut. "If you… if you wanted me to, I probably would… but I would hate myself for the rest of my life."

John swallowed dryly, trying to fight back the urge to cry. "Me, too," he choked out before getting to his feet and pulling Sherlock into a hug. "Me, too."

Sherlock didn't, surprisingly enough, resist. "J'hn…," he slurred, his head resting on John's shoulder. "It's OK. We're OK. Really…"

"I know," John breathed. "And… Sherlock? Thank you. Thank you so much."

Sherlock still didn't resist. "For… what," he mumbled, sounding groggy all of a sudden again.

John's lips curved into a smile. "For coming back to me. For listening to me when I begged you to. For having stepped into my life those four years ago." He snorted. "I never thanked Mike Stamford properly for introducing me to you."

Sherlock yawned and leaned against John. "Can do… that toge… together," he slurred, weakly and exhaustedly. "'nd John?" he asked while John helped him back into an upright position. "You're welcome."

x

When John went home this evening, after he had watched Sherlock doze off and sleep peacefully for at least half an hour, not able to resist the urge to grab his best friend's still too thin wrist and once more feel his comforting heartbeat beneath his fingertips, he felt light-headed, utterly light-headed.

Progress, the doctors had said. Although it was slow, and it took time, and it ripped him apart every time he had to witness Sherlock fainting or vomiting or hurting from his headache, sometimes, in moments like these, it felt like progress. Real and true progress. Because Sherlock was OK. OK.

And as long as Sherlock was OK, John would be, too.

* * *

Thank you for reading. As always, feedback is appreciated.

And, you might have realised, we're getting there, aren't we? Not too much left.


	27. Chapter 26

Thank you for still reading and for still being interested! It is encouraging, truly!

* * *

Not Meant to Be

26

* * *

Sherlock dreamt of John that night, of John's voice talking to him, bringing him back from the shores of darkness.

When he woke, he did so slowly, unwilling to open his eyes, but finally giving in to the urge to relieve himself.

His knees were trembling while he was washing his hands, and by the time he could sink back into his bed - not his, hospital bed - he felt as if he was half-asleep already. Tired, always so tired… Never mind. His eyes closed on their own account, and before he could produce another coherent thought, he had fallen asleep, hoping to see John again.

x

He did see John, in the dreams that followed, good dreams.

Normally, he didn't dream, but today… today was different. Or maybe it was different with John.

Unfortunately, his body demanded its right again.

Fumbling for the light, his arm trembling slightly, Sherlock sighed, blaming John's urging him to drink all the time for the fact that it was already the second time that night that he had to get up to use the loo.

Loo… loo…

Of course, he could always call a nurse, have her bring a bottle…

He couldn't find the light switch.

"Sod it," he muttered under his breath, pushing himself up from the pillows, untangling his feet from the duvet.

When his feet touched the floor, it felt cold, despite his socks, and for a moment he contemplated if he would need his dressing gown.

But no, loo… It wouldn't even take five minutes, he would be fine without. And afterwards, he would be able to get into bed again immediately, without undressing…

Sherlock did realise that his vision was slightly more blurry than the time before, but found he could not care. Toilet. He needed the toilet.

Thankfully, the door was open already, otherwise, he mused, feeling oddly sleepy, he would have stumbled against it. John wouldn't have been pleased.

Using the toilet was… dull. Tiring. He almost nodded off in the meantime.

When he got to his feet again, he felt terribly unsteady. Unsteady… Clutching the wash-bowl for support, he forced himself to take deep breaths, to will the nausea and dizziness to go away.

Why, why, why… He had been fine yesterday, fine, fine, fine… And now… The small bathroom was spinning around Sherlock and made his brain even more… fuzzy.

Not good.

Options. Options. Sit down on toilet. Wait. Not inviting. Not comfortable. Hurry, back to bed. Sleep. Comfortable. Warm. Good.

Still taking as deep breaths as possible, Sherlock carefully attempted to loosen his grip on the wash-bowl.

Not a good idea.

Before his knees could buckle even more and give way beneath him, he renewed his hold, clinging to the wash-bowl as if his very life depended on it.

Breathing deeply did not help in the least, and after a few seconds he realised distantly that he was shivering and that his heart was hammering wildly in his chest.

Not good.

He couldn't stay here. Not for much longer, at least. Bed, now, he decided and commanded his brain to remain calm.

It worked.

For a split-second.

Exactly long enough for him to let go of the wash-bowl and try a tentative step backwards.

Until the reeling started again, until his sense of balance disappeared completely and he felt himself tumbling forward, towards the… towards the wash-bowl.

Not good.

x

The next thing he knew was that there was something above him, something white, speckled with something dark…

Oh. The wash-bowl.

And dark… red. Oh. Blood. His blood.

Sherlock's hand sluggishly moved towards his head, feeling for… feeling for… wet. Blood.

John would not be pleased.

Seconds later, he became aware of a searing pain in his head, drowning out every idea of thought.

The lights around him started to flicker, darkness lunging at him…

Sherlock yelped and tried to turn to his side, tried to…

Blackness. Blackness threatening him.

Not good, his brain repeated. John would not be pleased.

As he realised that he was not confronted with a power outage, but that his eyelids were fluttering, a stab of fear jolted through him.

John would be _angry_. Really angry.

Stupid, was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

xxx

This time, it was Mary who answered the phone. Who answered the phone and gestured John at the same time to get up, to get ready.

John's heart stopped.

"Yes, OK," he heard Mary say. "We're on our way."

Ending the call and tossing away the phone was one swift movement. "Hospital," she told John and caused him to grab the first pair of trousers and the first jumper he could lay hands on. "What happened," he wanted to know curtly, doing his best not to panic.

Mary grabbed her trousers, too, managing a shrug. "Don't know much," she replied. "There was some kind of… accident, and now Sherlock's asking for you. The nurse said… we'd better come."

They'd better come.

As soon as they had hailed a cab, John wondered if he would ever start to feel normal again. Or if somewhen during this… ordeal, his heart would simply stop.

x

He felt close to catatonic by the time someone could spare a few minutes to inform them about what had happened.

"One of the nurses found him," they were being explained, "in the bathroom, unconscious. He didn't tell us much, apart from demanding us to call you, but we think he went to the toilet, collapsed and hit his head on the wash-bowl."

Head. Hit his head. No.

"The nurse who found him was able to wake him even before a doctor arrived, but the wound itself needed stitches, and we're doing a CT scan, to be sure…"

Mary's fingernails dug into John's palm, but he didn't care.

Stitches. Head.

"When can we see him?" he wanted to know.

x

He felt like experiencing a déjà vu, a terrible one, when he finally was permitted to see Sherlock.

Back in his old room after more than three hours. After another CT scan, a MRI scan and an EEG.

He didn't know what he should expect, but certainly not what he found.

Certainly not Sherlock being awake, resting against his pillows, unearthly pale with an IV line again, his eyelids drooping.

Alright, John had been assured, mild concussion, nothing else. No bleeding, no haemorrhage, no second fracture.

"He was awake, coherent, told us what happened," he remembered the doctor's words. "While we were doing the stitches, he started seizing, but it was over after sixteen seconds, and he came round only minutes later. He's on constant watch and absolute bed rest for at least twenty-four hours, but apparently, there was no major damage done. Just a mild concussion. It's close to a miracle, actually."

A miracle.

For once, John found himself speechless. So many things rushed through his head, hugging Sherlock, punching him, shouting at him, soothing him…

"Tell me what happened," he finally demanded, stopping in front of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock blinked heavily. "John…," he began.

"No, not John," John corrected him, gritting his teeth. "Tell me what happened."

Sherlock turned his head sideways, the uninjured left side, only sporting the still visible scar, towards John.

"Sherlock," John urged, clenching his hands into fists. "Tell me."

His friend shifted a tiny bit, wincing. "Went to… loo," he mumbled, slowly. "Was dizzy an'… I couldn' go back, so I…"

"You fainted," John concluded. "And hit your head."

Sherlock still didn't look at him. "Fell," he corrected. "And hit my head. Then… fainted."

For a few moments, John could hear nothing except for the blood rushing in his ears.

"…stupid… 'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes.

John tensed his jaw. "You'd better be," he said darkly. "What were you even thinking when you went to the toilet _on your own_?"

Sherlock gave a slight sigh, frowning. "You… angry?"

Angry.

"Like hell I am," he choked out and was at Sherlock's side with two large steps. "I'm absolutely furious, and… and I'm… I'm just bloody relieved that you're… that you're OK."

Sherlock blinked at him while John took hold of his hand. "Never do that again," he growled.

His best friend flinched a tiny bit and then yawned. "Don' intend to," he mumbled.

Carefully, utterly carefully, John extended his free hand towards Sherlock's forehead to where a plaster had been taped, covering a laceration and the stitches. "I hope it hurts," he muttered, withdrawing his hand again. No reason to touch the swelling, to aggravate it further.

Sherlock shifted again. "No you don'," he whispered, his eyes closed.

"You look horrible," John said instead of an answer, only to continue with a soft smile. "No, I don't. Although you'd deserve it. Idiot."

Sherlock only smirked feebly.

x

When another doctor entered half an hour later, checking Sherlock's vitals and asking him questions about who he was, where he was, if he remembered… Mary came in with him, clearly relieved, too, sitting down on John's lap.

Sherlock nodded off for a bit, both in discomfort and exhausted, but woke before Mary fell asleep on John's lap.

"Go home," John told her. "Go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"You're rather comfortable," she muttered and snuggled close to him. "I'll stay, if you don't mind."

x

"'m sorry… that I woke you," Sherlock mumbled eventually, wrenching his eyes open.

John, lost in thought, flinched. "What," he responded distractedly, the doctor's words still haunting him. Images still haunting him. Close to a miracle… He had gone to the bathroom, shortly after Mary had curled up on the second chair in the room, had seen the blood on the wash-bowl - and had fully realised how much luck Sherlock had had. If he had hit the basin a tiny bit differently, from a different angle… maybe it would have cracked his skull again, or it would have caused another bleeding, and this time, it could have been too late…

"'m sorry," Sherlock repeated quietly. "'t'was fine on the toilet, but when I… wanted to go back… 'twas spinnin' and…"

Shaking his head, John forced himself to focus on Sherlock. "I'm still angry at you," he said sternly. "No matter how often you apologise. You could have died, Sherlock, again, and I…" His voice broke.

"An' yet you've come," Sherlock whispered, wincing again.

John would have boxed him if he hadn't been sure that it would hurt Sherlock. "Of course I've come. I just hope you're never giving me a call like this again."

Sherlock smirked feebly. "S'ry."

He remained silent for a few minutes, long enough for John to start believing that he had finally succumbed to sleep again.

"John," he suddenly said, tightening his grip on John's hand. "When can I… go home?"

Go home. For a moment, John didn't know if he should be angry or amused. "Not any time soon, I'm afraid," he answered. "Bed rest, that's what the doctor told me, because you have a mild concussion, suffered a seizure this night and collapsed on your way to the toilet since you were dizzy."

Sherlock tried to frown, failing due to his hurting laceration. "It wasn' a real seizure," he protested. "…been here long enough."

Long enough. Indeed, realisation hit John. More than one month. More than one month since… Meaning that he had spent more than thirty days in a row in the hospital. "Yes," he agreed, pursing his lips. "But don't try to convince me that you're fine. I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I can see that you're not."

Sherlock still didn't give up on the attempt to furrow his brow, causing him to wince.

"Stop it," John told him.

Sherlock shifted again, sighing. "How d'you know?"

This time, John chuckled. "I do have eyes. And ears. You don't complain, you sleep through the nights, you're not bored. This is the first time that you ever mentioned that you want to go home. You are absolutely knackered, and you allow me to hold your hand all the time. And I'm positively sure that fainting in the bathroom isn't exactly a sign for being fine. So, conclusion: You're not. And since I want you to get better, I will make sure that you do whatever the doctor tells you."

"What you tell me…," Sherlock slurred, closing his eyes. "You… doctor…"

Minutes later, John was surrounded by the soft and even breathing of the two people in the world he held most dear.

* * *

I borrowed the last line, I know. I'm not even sorry.

Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.

Oh, and by the way, this chapter was never intended to be a cliffhanger or an extra element of suspense, but rather serves as a catalyser for what's to follow.


	28. Chapter 27

I am terribly sorry for the rather long wait - I had not intended it that way. Unfortunately, moving, as I have found out, requires quite a lot of time and attention...

Nonetheless, here's the next part, and I hope you'll enjoy it.

Oh, and to the anonymous reviewer who asked about how many chapters... I don't know exactly, not yet. Five plus an epilogue, maybe?

* * *

Not Meant to Be

27

* * *

The night was to become a restless one for John.

For John and, of course, for Sherlock, who, in contrast to Mary slumbering soundly, woke every few minutes, every time he, in his sleep, tried to turn his head to the right side, the side on which he had formerly been able to sleep on painlessly. Formerly.

Once per hour, a doctor came in, shaking Sherock awake, regardlessly if he had fallen asleep only minutes earlier, finally having found a position he was comfortable in, asking him the same questions over and over.

Whereas John appreciated this measure of precaution and knew it to be reasonable, he almost flinched at how hoarse Sherlock's voice sounded after the fifth time, and how sluggish his movements and his answers - his correct answers, though - were. Side-effect of medication and exhaustion, the doctor reassured him, not of the concussion.

Mary left in the early morning, heading for home and then for work, despite the rather uncomfortable night, but John stayed. Of course.

Later that morning, Sherlock finally fell asleep, exhausted, still pale, with dark smudges beneath his eyes.

He slept through most of the day, not entirely peaceful and still disturbed every two hours by a doctor, but at least he slept.

x

"Why do… does he have to ask… the same questions over… and over again," Sherlock muttered flatly after the doctor had left once more, moving his head on the pillow in order to find a comfortable position. "'s stu… stupid."

"He's just trying to make sure you remember everything that happened, that there are no further complications," John told him, restraining his head gently and putting a soft pillow to his right side, to rest on.

"Thank… you," Sherlock murmured, sighing. "But why… why so stupid?" he complained.

John sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to ask you who was stupid and stubborn enough to walk to the toilet on their own and managed to faint there," he replied, trying to focus on his magazine.

Sherlock was silent for so long that John already started believing he had fallen asleep - or worse -, a sense of worry making him lower his magazine. "Sherlock?" he inquired.

He was staring at the ceiling, his brow furrowed as much as his headache would allow it.

"Didn' do it on purpose," he mumbled, his expression forcefully neutral.

All of a sudden, John felt a pang of guilt. "I know," he muttered while his throat narrowed considerably. "I know. It's just…"

"I can't even… go… to the… toilet… myself," Sherlock went on, his voice sounding bitter. "I'm…"

"No," John cut him off, leaning forward. "Don't say anything." Don't, he added in his thoughts. You're not weak, you're not useless, you're not a freak. Don't even think that. "You're just… your injury was serious, and you just need time to recover," was what he settled on.

Sherlock didn't move as John fumbled for his hand and squeezed it.

John kept holding his hand until Sherlock had fallen asleep once more.

x

"Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, 6th… of January, Cons… Consulting Detec… tive. Fell in the bath… room, hit… head. Con… cussion. Headache. No… nausea," Sherlock rattled off as soon as the doctor had opened his mouth.

John tried to hide his smile behind his magazine whereas the doctor appeared mildly shocked.

"Um… well," he finally managed. "I… er… Thank… you."

Shooting John a confused glance, he left again, and finally John was allowed to chuckle.

"What," Sherlock mumbled, suddenly sounding much more tired than minutes ago.

Giving up on his magazine once again, John took in Sherlock's appearance, the bruise around the plaster, the way he tensed his entire face, the way his eyes narrowed. "Your headache's worse?" he wanted to know.

"Mh," Sherlock only made, blinking.

John took a deep breath. "Do you want more medication?" he asked softly.

After a few moments, his nostrils flaring, Sherlock feebly shook his head. "Makes me… fuzzy. No."

"Alright," John muttered, leaning back again. "Just… tell me when you feel worse, OK?"

"Mh," Sherlock repeated.

x

"John."

John jerked awake, only now realising that he had in fact nodded off, in broad day-light, almost falling from his chair. "Hm?" he croaked, worried at once. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked, if possible with his bleary and red-rimmed eyes, the bruising and his pallidness, exasperated. "Toilet," he mumbled. "Need your help."

Pursing his lips knowingly, John shook his head. "No," he said. "Bed rest, remember? No getting up. I'm calling a nurse."

"John…," Sherlock tried again in a small voice.

"No," John repeated. "Bed rest. I'm not letting you hop around only twelve hours after you sustained a concussion. Sorry, Sherlock."

Grudgingly, Sherlock had to accept the bottle the nurse brought.

x

John called Mary when Sherlock nodded off once more, telling her that he wasn't likely to be home before late in the night, depending on how well Sherlock did, and being told that Mary, due to having to work longer, wouldn't be able to come to the hospital today. He didn't like it, of course, but neither did he like the thought of Sherlock being alone, having stupid ideas such as going to the toilet by himself again or walking around, just because he didn't see any point in bed rest.

Mary chuckled softly when he told her. "Might it be possible that you're mollycoddling him?," she teased him. "And now go back to your patient and make sure he doesn't even sneeze in your absence, and tell him to behave and get better. I love you."

Although John knew that her words hadn't been serious, not entirely, and although he knew that maybe, just maybe, he indeed was becoming a tiny bit over-protective of Sherlock, he couldn't help it. Not now, not yet.

Unfortunately, he was proven right when Sherlock experienced a short episode of vomiting in the evening, dry heaving, mostly, since Sherlock hadn't ingested anything for the past twenty hours.

"Dis… gusting," Sherlock forced out as soon as he was able to draw breath again, sagging a tiny bit in John's grip.

"Do you think you can lie down?" he wanted to know, and when Sherlock nodded curtly, holding his breath, John carefully lowered him back to the pillows and took the bowl to the bathroom, emptying it and cleaning it rudimentarily.

"OK now?" he inquired when he came back, placing the bowl next to the bed in case it might be needed again. Vomiting. Again. And sweating and trembling from exertion.

"Mh," Sherlock only made non-committally, wincing.

"Alright?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock held his breath for a moment, a habit John really didn't like. Holding his breath when he was in pain was… counterproductive. "Breathe," he ordered.

Sherlock managed a shaky inhale and then whispered: "Head's… killing me."

Headache. Bloody persistent headache. "Try to sleep for a bit," John suggested, doing his best not to sound too worried. "I know you're tired, and…"

"Can't," Sherlock interrupted him, wincing again. "Head…"

Taking in Sherlock's right eye, slowly turning a deeply purplish shade, John stifled a sigh. "Try to," he repeated. "I could… I could read Greg's files to you, if you want me to."

"Mh," Sherlock mumbled, shifting slowly.

Once John had found the case files, had sat down again and had grabbed Sherlock's right hand, he slowly started reading.

x

Even to John's own surprise, Sherlock fell asleep rather quickly, looking utterly miserable.

Well, sleep would do him good. John sat in his chair, setting the piles of paper aside, and subconsciously started stroking the back of Sherlock's now limp hand, massaging his own aching temples with his other hand - and simply watched his friend sleep.

Unfortunately, not even one hour later, the doctor's visit was due, and Sherlock was woken again, staring around blearily for a moment before his eyes started to focus.

Dutifully, albeit hoarsely and grumpily, he answered the same questions again, an almost annoyed expression on his face.

"Why's he always asking… the same questions?" he wanted to know, rubbing his forehead.

"To check if you remember," John told him for the second time, stifling a yawn.

Sherlock huffed. "I do. Perfectly."

His friend was silent for a while.

"John," Sherlock finally addressed him.

John didn't like how his voice sounded. As if he was up to something. Leaning forward, he raised his eyebrows. "What?"

Cringing, Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. "There's something we… have to… talk… 'bout."

And then, John knew what was coming. "No," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"John," Sherlock said again, looking at John, his voice deep. "Tell me what happened."

Tell me what happened. No.

Sherlock tried to stare at him, his attempt weakened by the fact that he not too softly collapsed back to the pillows, too exhausted to remain upright, trembling already from the exertion. "You know what happened to me," he said, rather breathlessly. "You know, and I… don't remember, and… I have a right to know. John, please."

John, please.

Images flashing through his brain, images of Sherlock… "No," he whispered. "Not now."

"Why not," Sherlock whispered, moaning, his finger twitching.

John gripped his hand.

Inhaling deeply, he stared at his fingers entwined with Sherlock's rather than at his best friend himself. "Because it's in the middle of the night, and because you are supposed to be resting and sleeping!" he exclaimed.

"'m not stupid, John," his friend mumbled. "I know that my brain doesn't work properly, and that there was a haem… hae… blood… bleeding in my skull, that I was comatose for days, but I don't. Know. Why. Why, John, why…"

John gritted his teeth, looking anywhere, but not at Sherlock. Not at Sherlock.

"John." Ironically, Sherlock's voice sounded more steady than it had in weeks. "Please. Tell me. What happened to me?"

When John finally raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's, he saw his friend grimacing, either in pain or anguish. Or both.

He took in Sherlock's appearance, the bruise, his paleness, the sudden determination on his face. His exhaustion. Pressed his eyes shut, started counting inside of his head. Then moved his hand, his fingers, untangled them from Sherlock's grip, resting them on his right wrist instead and pressed two fingers to his pulse point.

And told him.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


	29. Chapter 28

What can I say? I'm... grateful. Really. Thank you.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

28

* * *

John told him.

John told him what had happened.

And Sherlock listened, quietly, trying to process, trying to concentrate.

Case.

Investigating.

Homeless network.

Junkies.

Shoving.

Kerb.

Head.

Skull fracture.

Intracranial haemorrhage.

Left.

Having been left.

Alone.

Night.

Rain.

Left for dead.

More than four hours.

Wiggins. Homeless network.

Ambulance.

Hospital.

Craniotomy.

Cardiac arrest.

Sedation.

Sedation turning into coma.

Possibility of brain damage.

Waking.

"And then…," John ended slowly, taking carefully controlled breaths, "you woke up, and you recognised me and seemed to be yourself… All I wanted was you to get better, and so I decided that there was no necessity to tell you anything…" His voice broke.

A case. Junkies. The sidewalk. Alley, lying in an alley. For more than four hours, his skull broken.

The probability of…, Sherlock's brain began, but he didn't want to know. He didn't.

Lying there. Left there.

Although it was unreasonable, although he had been unconscious then, would never remember anything that had happened in that night, it felt… frightening. Frightening, lying there, left to die. Almost had died, as John had told him.

Surgery. Sedation. John being there. Coma.

Coma.

Coma.

Sherlock found it difficult to process the thought, difficult to capture that he had not been able to do anything, that his brain had… shut off, leaving his body to die if it hadn't been for hospital equipment. Not breathing. Mechanical ventilation.

Mechanical ventilation.

Distantly, he felt a shudder run up his spine.

Intracranial haemorrhage. Lying in some alley.

He had been found, by sheer luck. If nobody had happened to pass this street in that night… He would be dead now, dead, and it would just have been unfortunate. Nothing more. How stupid.

John's fingers were still pressed to his wrist.

Data, data, data. Process data. Think, he ordered himself, ordered his brain, wanted to, wanted to…

"Junkies," he finally mumbled, the first thing that came to the surface of his mind, the first thing that caught his attention for more than one millisecond. "How very fitting. Junkies nearly kill an ex-junkie. Neat."

Not good, the other part of his brain, still working properly, told him. And indeed, John looked as if he was about to slap Sherlock.

"I am deeply sorry to have you relive this again," he settled on an apology, focusing hard on forming a full sentence, on not disappointing John.

Not the right thing to say, too, probably. Although his brain was mere steps away from going into overdrive, although Sherlock felt like simply collapsing, simply shutting everything out, he still noticed the look of hurt cross John's face.

"Shut up, Sherlock," he ordered, his hand squeezing Sherlock's tightly.

Sherlock did.

Coma.

Bleeding for four hours.

The alley… craniotomy. Sherlock was, distantly, fazed by the fact that he had survived surgery, after more than four hours of bleeding, and that he hadn't contracted any kind of hospital acquired infection that killed him a few days after surgery. Fazed, yes, and… and horrified at the mere thought.

Not for the first time, of course not, but with a sudden shocking clarity the thought hit him what all of this had to have meant for John.

John, his friend. Best friend.

John… Sherlock's brain reeled and wheeled and rattered around him as he thought further of what it might have done to John. John, John, his faithful blogger, friend, best friend. Who had waited for him to wake up, waited for the nightmare to end… and who still dreamt, as he remembered now, nightmares, of him, most likely. Of him, dead, Sherlock assumed.

"John…," he mumbled, without any intention what to say. John, simply John.

John appeared as if he was about to cry.

"How do you know?" Sherlock mumbled, asking the second thing that came to his mind. Apart from all the other things.

John flinched. "Mycroft told me," he answered swiftly, too swiftly.

The room was spinning around Sherlock, as were the words and images inside of his head. "And how did he know?" he asked.

John had turned pale, Sherlock suddenly became aware of, despite his dizziness. Dizzy. Again. Stupid. Bleeding. Junkies. "Sherlock, is that important now?" he murmured flatly. "Can't we talk about that tomorrow, when you're better?"

Better. Better. Better.

Recovery. Incapacitation.

Recovery. What a weak word.

Shoving himself into a sitting position hurt, made him gasp, made his head explode. "That's the point, John," he muttered nonetheless, investing all of his remaining energy to do force out the words. "Nobody knows if I'll be better tomorrow. For all I know, I could be dead by tomorrow, dead because some vein in my brain chose to burst, or I could not remember anything we talked about."

Bitter, he sounded bitter, although he wasn't… or was he? He did not know, did not know anything, could not think…

In the silence that followed Sherlock was able to hear his own heart hammering painfully in his chest. Headache. Headache. Bloody headache. Bloody accident…

"I read your chart," John's cold voice startled him. Cold and soldierly, professional. "After you were admitted. If it had been any longer, one or two or three hours, you would have been dead. Your blood pressure," John had to clear his throat, "your blood pressure was down to 53 over 26, and you were… there wasn't much life left within you," he ended, his voice breaking. "After you had woken, one night, you suddenly started to show symptoms which led the doctor to suspect meningitis, and I… I thought it was over. Again. Really over. I don't care if you're yet too weak to walk or if I still have to catch you every time I accompany you to the toilet - I don't care, I mean… I don't mind, I… you know - because you're my best friend, and I am perfectly aware of how close it was. How very nearly you could have died. Multiple times. And let me tell you this," he said while moving from his chair to the edge of the bed, still gripping Sherlock's hand, "I will not have you give up now."

For a moment, Sherlock couldn't breathe. Didn't know what to think, didn't know how to go on, how to cope, how to…

"John…," he whispered, trying in vain to block all other thoughts out. Too much, too much… Pressing his eyes shut didn't help. "John, 'm sorry…," he mumbled, pathetically, but couldn't help it. He didn't know why he was saying it, but then, what else was there to say?

He had known that it had been close, that he very nearly had died, that something bad had happened, something that hadn't been his fault, but to hear this… It shocked him. It truly and utterly shocked him. And he didn't even know why, because he hadn't been conscious to witness any of it. Didn't remember it, didn't remember anything.

Stupid, it was stupid, sentiment, but he could not help it.

Didn't remember.

Except for John. For John's voice.

"John," he croaked raspily, opening his eyes, "your night… mares. They're 'bout me, aren' they?"

Of course they were. Deduce, Sherlock, deduce. He had, and yet, he had to be sure. Be sure, be sure…

John hesitated only a second. "Yes."

Yes.

All of his strength suddenly leaving his body, he collapsed forwards, collapsed until he sagged against something warm, something… against John, bonelessly, mindlessly, enjoying John's warmth, his smell, his voice… John's arm wrapping around him.

Sherlock barely noticed that tears started to leak out of his eyes, silent tears, disappearing in John's jumper. "And I can't remember…," he whispered weakly, barely finding the energy to breathe by now. "Can't remember, can't think…"

Everything John had told him was swirling around in his head, worsening his headache, making him nauseous and dizzy, making him want to scream and shout and…

John. John was holding him.

"You _can _think," John's voice suddenly appearing, soft and comforting, oddly enough, as always, piercing through the darkness in Sherlock's mind and chasing it away. Or holding it back. "You can think, Sherlock, and if you don't remember… it's normal, it's… You need _time_. You need to give yourself some time. You remembered your name, you remembered Mrs Hudson, our first case, Greg, Molly, Mary… so many people, so many things, Sherlock, you remembered all of them. And," his voice started to quiver, "you remembered me."

Drawing another shaky breath, Sherlock pressed his watering eyes shut. Of course, he wanted to say, of course I remember you. Always, John, always, how could I forget you of all people?

"You remembered me," John went on before Sherlock had gathered the strength to utter more than a sob, "and although I know it's selfish and egoistic of me, you gave me all I had hoped for. Because you remembered me. And when you tried to whisper my name directly after you had woken, I… I somehow felt that we could make it right again. Make it all better. I've told you before, you won't get rid of me. Not now, not…" His voice broke.

"I've never experienced something like that before," John choked out while Sherlock could feel his hands, softly rubbing his back. "I've never felt such… such fear before as in the days you were comatose. Seriously, Sherlock… I thought I was going to lose you, and… and…"

Fear. Haemorrhage. Bleeding. Intracranial pressure. Coma. Fever. Pain. Not remembering. Headache. Headache. Exhaustion. Recovery. Stagnation. Complications. John. John. Junkies. John. Skull fracture. John.

So many things… so many…

Sherlock could not sort anything, could not cataloguise anything, could not analyse. Could only sit and witness in horror what his brain was doing, out of control, trying to process information which was, he felt, at this point unprocessable.

John.

John.

Thinking.

Brain damage.

Thinking.

Incapacitation.

Recovery.

Recovery.

John.

Telling him.

Alley.

Skull fracture, bleeding…

Stop it, Sherlock wanted to scream, wanted to shout, unable to do anything. Unable to escape.

Maybe John had been right, he thought with a sudden feeling of overwhelming panic. Maybe it had been too early, maybe, maybe, maybe…

Calm, calm, calm.

John. John was here. John was holding him.

Fine. Alright. He was alright.

John, John was still holding him, rubbing his back soothingly. His cheek… on John's shoulder, on John's jumper.

Whispering, soothingly, nonsense. Comforting. Comforting.

When he took his first conscious breath, Sherlock suddenly realised that it sounded more like a sob. Sob. Sobbing. Expressing great emotional stress and… No, stop it. Stop.

"It's alright," John mumbled, probably for the hundredth time in a row. Oddly enough, although Sherlock had always deemed such sentiment ridiculous, it felt comforting, it felt… good. Because it showed that John was here, and that John cared.

Sobbing, his body was still sobbing. _He _was sobbing.

"John…," he whispered, his throat raw. "Sorry…"

Normally, he was in control, always in control, but now…

"Don't be sorry, you brilliant idiot," John's voice reached him again. "You woke up, you came back to me, and I'm… I'm…"

Exhaling, Sherlock closed his moist eyes, sagging fully against John. "I know," he breathed. "I know."

John giggled breathlessly.

Sherlock joined in.

He would need time, time to… order and analyse… and think, and… and cope, and he would need John, but… but it was… a start.

"I hope no… no nurse… is coming in… now," he breathed flatly, still in John's arms.

John giggled again.

This time, Sherlock barely had the energy for a weak smile. "John," he whispered, not knowing what he wanted to say. Not knowing what to do against all the uncertainty, the fear, the shock, the insecurity, the doubt. With all those emotions. Brain surgery. After-effects. "Just…," he choked out, feeling John's hand around his neck, his warm hand… Hold me, John, he wanted to scream. Don't ever let go, please, John… "Don'… Just… just… would you… give me… a moment?" he managed to force out, sounding pathetic, nonetheless. Stupid, so stupid. And weak. Not even able to cope with what had happened, terrified, without any reason, and sobbing. Sobbing.

He didn't oppose when John's grip tightened, when he didn't let go. "Of course," was what John mumbled, hoarsely. "I… er… it's… fine. All fine."

It wasn't, Sherlock thought while he squeezed his eyes shut firmly and focused on breathing. Breathing in John's scent. But John always made everything appear less horrible.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	30. Chapter 29

Wow. You're brilliant, you know. Seriously. Thank you.

And now: Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

29

* * *

John didn't want to let go. He absolutely didn't.

His shoulders were shaking in unison with Sherlock's, he assumed, but he didn't care.

It was supposed to feel awkward, probably, hugging his best friend tightly, practically holding him, it might even be inappropriate or nothing John Watson and Sherlock Holmes ever did, but this time, it was… it was different.

Because Sherlock needed him, right now, although he of course hadn't said so. John could see it, nonetheless, could hear it in his voice, uncertain and small, noticed it by the way Sherlock didn't resist but sagged against John, by the way he practically had collapsed until John hadn't been able to watch it any longer, until he had reached out and pulled Sherlock close.

And in that moment, when Sherlock had finally, after weeks, given in to his… to everything, John assumed, all of his feelings which had slumbered beneath the surface, which he had tried so hard all the time to control, when he had dropped the mask that had still been on his face, the entire time, never really letting on how much he was suffering, how insecure he was, how confused, when it all became to much… in that moment, John would have given anything, anything at all, to make it stop.

He had seen Sherlock comatose, had seen him in a state of utter confusion right after he had woken up, had watched him sleep or pass out numerous times, had watched him toss feverishly, had watched him faint and collapse, had watched him having an anxiety attack, had watched the doctors and nurses tend to him while he had been unconscious or sleeping. It had been frightening, and terrifying, all of it.

But this, this was… just as scary, somehow. Because this time, it wasn't Sherlock's body that betrayed him as it had done before, no, this time, John knew for sure, it was his mind.

It was Sherlock trying to process what had happened to him. Trying to cope. If even John found it difficult to understand, to bear, how then could Sherlock? Being the one to whom it had happened, not being his normal controlled self. Not yet.

And that was exactly why John had not wanted to tell Sherlock.

His shoulders stopped shaking eventually, but John did not deem it safe enough to let go of his best friend yet. Not for his own sake, tears stinging in his eyes, too. Because holding Sherlock was all he could do, in the end, to reassure himself that, despite everything, Sherlock was still OK, and to reassure Sherlock, at the same time, that he would be here. Always.

And so, he just held on.

x

It was Sherlock who disrupted the silence first, slowly raising his head from John's shoulder.

"John," he whispered, his voice raspy.

John took a deep breath. "Hm?" he made, unsure what to expect. Unsure if… if he wanted to release Sherlock yet.

"I…," Sherlock began, and John could feel him breathing. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know why…" He trailed off awkwardly.

No, it's…," John replied and slowly unwrapped his hands from Sherlock's back, put them on his shoulders instead, steadying him in a sitting position. It felt cold all of a sudden, without the warmth of Sherlock next to him.

Sherlock feebly grinned at him, lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "You shouldn' tell Mary," he mumbled flatly. "You and me… hugging…"

John squeezed his shoulders, biting back the urge to giggle, to giggle because everything… everything was too much, maybe. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't laugh, it's just…"

Sherlock blinked and sagged forward, giving John an excuse for pulling him into another embrace. "'s fine," Sherlock murmured, his breath tickling John's neck. "John, I…" Breathing rather heavily, he managed to sit up again, staring intently at John, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy and bloodshot. "I… thank… you."

John locked his gaze on his best friend. "You're welcome, Sherlock," he replied hoarsely, barely trusting his own voice. "You're welcome, always. Always. No matter what."

Sherlock smiled feebly. "I know," he whispered before his head lolled towards John once more.

Without Sherlock prostesting, John helped him to lie down again, propped him up on three pillows and pulled the covers to his chest.

Pursing his lips for a moment, he then opened his mouth and asked calmly: "You OK?"

It was a weird question, considering what he had just witnessed, considering the near-breakdown Sherlock had just experienced, but… but he had to ask. Because Sherlock would understand.

Another weak grin, hollow and tired, but an echo of Sherlock's usual smirk, appeared on his pallid face. "Yes," he mumbled, and for John, it was enough.

He wasn't fine, probably not even remotely so, John could easily see that, was still trying to process what John had told him, trying to cope with it. But… a start. It was a start.

"OK," he replied quietly and gave Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze.

John kept silent while Sherlock turned his head to the right side, towards him, just a tiny bit. "John?" he asked, almost carefully.

"Hm?" John replied, shifting a tiny bit on the mattress.

"I… how did Mycr… Mycroft know?" Sherlock whispered.

Fiddling with the IV line hanging from the drip stand, doing something to keep his second hand busy, too, John tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. "He had a video about… it. CCTV. He doesn't have it any more."

Sherlock sighed feebly. "You're lying," he muttered.

And nothing more. He didn't complain, didn't urge John to show him, to tell him more details, simply didn't.

John studied him in wonder. And caught the way Sherlock held his head, the way he narrowed his eyes, the way he was breathing. "Headache?" he asked quietly.

"Mh," Sherlock answered, his nostrils flaring.

Softly untangling his fingers, John got up, heading to the bathroom, only to be back seconds later.

"We… had to talk 'bout it," Sherlock mumbled when John had returned, placing a wet cloth on Sherlock's brow. "Even…tually."

Drawing his chair as close to the bed as possible, John sat down and nodded solemnly. "I know," he whispered, rubbing his stinging eyes. "I just… I was afraid you would… I didn't know how you were going to react, and I wanted to spare you the knowledge of… When I think about what they did to you, it… it makes me sick. And I wasn't there to help you. I wasn't…" John almost couldn't believe it, but his voice did in fact break again.

Seconds later, there was a soft touch to his hands, Sherlock's fingers.

"I'm sorry, John," he murmured.

John sniffled and attempted a smile. "It's fine now," he mumbled, rather stupidly. "It's OK."

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes. "I knew," he began, breathing deeply, "I knew that something serious, really serious, had… to have… happened. You weren't… angry at me, not… at all, not… until yester… day, so it couldn' have… been my fault, and… and it had to… 've been serious, and probab…ly trauma… tic…"

John didn't know what to say, didn't think he could speak at all, if he tried. Not when there was a lump in his throat tall enough to prevent him from breathing.

"What…," Sherlock breathed, frowning a tiny bit. "Do you… know who…?"

Sucking in a large gasp, John stiffly shook his head. "Mycroft is looking for them," he rasped. "He'll find them, and they…" His voice broke.

"They… they just left you there," he choked out after a few minutes. "They shoved you, and then… then went away. Left you to die." He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. "I swear, I could…" Taking another deep breath didn't help. "If I ever met them, I don't know what I'd do. Seriously."

Sherlock's eyes were unnaturally puffy as he directed his gaze at John, the look in them so… so frightened and insecure and vulnerable as John had never seen Sherlock before. And never wanted to see Sherlock again.

"John," his best friend croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, "do you think… do you think I… I will have a chance?"

John felt tears well up in his eyes, tears he didn't want. A chance? Of recovery. Of being the same again. Of living a normal life. No sugarcoating this time, no comforting soothing. Just the truth.

The truth.

"Yes," John finally answered and watched Sherlock exhale, his eyes fluttering shut for a split-second. The truth. Yes.

"Good," Sherlock mumbled, his lips quivering until they formed a frail smile. "Good."

Good. Yes.

In a weird, fascinating way John felt he had never been so close to Sherlock. Now, when Sherlock probably needed him the most, when he had been stripped of all his defences, when he finally had come to realise what an injury such as his meant.

"You will need time," John told him, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Time and a lot of exercising, probably, and you'll feel tired and exhausted for more weeks, maybe months…"

"I know," Sherlock replied.

"There might be some slight incapacitations, and there might be throwbacks," he continued quickly before he lost the courage to do so, "but… you'll improve. And recover. I know you, Sherlock. I know you will."

Sherlock smirked again. "What 'bout… crime scenes?" he wanted to know after a few minutes, his face blank.

Crime scenes. Consulting Detective. The job Sherlock was married to.

"After a while," John answered hesitantly, "probably. But not too early, and nothing too dangerous. And not without me," he added swiftly, softly nudging Sherlock's right arm. "Got to take care of you, hm?"

Sherlock moaned as he tried to turn to his right side, causing the cloth to slide from his forehead. "Never… with… out my… blogger," he mumbled.

John giggled.

"Maybe you should try to sleep," he suggested as soon as he had caught his breath. "It's six o'clock in the morning, and you received a concussion only about 24 hours ago. Rest for a bit." With his right hand, he put the cloth back to Sherlock's forehead, soaking the plaster.

"Dull," Sherlock mumbled. "Can' sleep. Headache."

Dull. How long had it been since John had last heard this word? He squeezed Sherlock's hand.

Vulnerable, the word occurred to John again as Sherlock wrenched his eyes open. "John…," he began in a husky voice. "Thank you… it's… I don' know what I'd… do without you…"

John was rather sure his cheeks were flushed in that moment. "Me neither," he whispered.

Sherlock's eyes closed. "Don' like it," he mumbled. "Bein' so… prone to… to… sentiment…"

Prone to sentiment. Only Sherlock could think of phrasing his way of coping, his initial distress - which was normal, so very normal… - like that.

It hurt, of course, it hurt John, too, and he never wanted, absolutely not, to see Sherlock cry again.

But then, it had to happen one day. He didn't even want to imagine the stress Sherlock had probably felt all the time, the confusion, the anger deep inside him, his fear, anxiety, insecurity. All those emotions he had not let on and that had finally burst out.

"You're not 'prone to sentiment'," John told him softly. "It's OK. It's OK. It's just… the shock talking, I s'ppose."

Sherlock chuckled flatly. "Mh," he made, sounding half-asleep by now.

"It's fine," John reassured him, squeezing his hand. "Sleep, OK? I'll be here when you wake."

But of course, Sherlock had to open his eyes once more. "John," he mumbled, returning the firm grip. "I want to go home."

x

John held his first promise and was still here when Sherlock woke again, when a doctor came in and asked him more questions which Sherlock answered perfectly, albeit still sleepily.

By that time, John himself felt as if he could barely watch straight and had to stifle the third yawn in a row when the doctor left.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Go home," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

John shook his head. "I don't want to leave you alone," he said.

The hurt look returned to Sherlock's eyes for a split-second before he tried to roll his eyes, wincing as he did so. "'m fine," he mumbled. "Not going to do much ex…cept for sleeping. Go home, John, sleep."

John had to smile. "OK," he agreed. "I'll call Greg, and if he agrees to coming, I'll go." When Sherlock tried to open his mouth to protest, John cut him off. "No. Don't complain. I'll call him. You sleep and recover. I'll be back in the evening."

Only when Sherlock had fallen asleep, he got up and dialled Greg's number.

Lestrade's final words before he ended the call were: "On my way. Don't worry."

John doubted he could, but he could try, knowing that Sherlock was OK, that he was in good hands. In good hands.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	31. Chapter 30

Thank you all so much, thank you, thank you.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

30

* * *

When Sherlock was shaken awake by some doctor and answered all of the questions he was being asked, trying to make sense of them and trying to keep his eyes open, he wondered why he wasn't alone.

There was someone, someone…

Not John, obviously, hopefully because John… John should be at home, sleeping, resting. Mycroft's words, Sherlock realised, had left a deeper impression than he first had assumed.

But no, not John. Different.

What had John said before he had fallen asleep? What…

"Hey," a raspy voice said. "You OK?"

Sherlock's brain caught up with his surroundings. "L'str'd," he mumbled, sounding awfully sleepy to his own ears.

The man sitting on a chair, bending towards him, started grinning. "Yeah," he replied. "You sure you're OK? John told me about a 'little accident' of yours, as he put it, and asked me if I could come and watch over…"

Sherlock closed his eyes when Lestrade awkwardly cut himself off. Watch over… He was fine, really, he was. No need for John to worry.

"…been here long?," he finally succeeded in mumbling, tiredness and the knowledge of what John had told him and of what had happened crushing down on him.

Lestrade needed a few seconds until he answered. "What? Oh, yeah, few hours. John called me, and I said, yeah, why not, so… I'm here now."

Carefully and with limbs that felt too heavy to move Sherlock tried to turn on his side.

"The doctor's always asking you those questions?" Lestrade wanted to know in a low voice.

"Mh," Sherlock confirmed, exhaling. "To make sure I'm… I can remember."

It had not been a good idea to talk through the night, in retrospect, but then, all of the things John and he had talked about had to come to the surface eventually. Why not now, why not in that night. He could sleep, nobody would be offended. "J'hn's… home?" he slurred, feeling barely half-awake by now.

John had to be at home, had to find some rest, together with his wife…

"Yep," Lestrade answered, his voice looming above Sherlock. "He's headed home, to get some sleep. He'll be back in the evening."

Back in the evening… "Good," was all Sherlock could think of.

x

It was not a pleasant experience to be woken up every few hours, to answer the same dull and unintelligible questions over and over again.

When the doctor left this time, however, Sherlock felt a tiny bit more lucid, a tiny bit more coherent, and for the first time he wondered why Lestrade was here.

"There was no… need for you to come," he choked out while slowly forcing himself into a sitting position.

The look Lestrade gave him was definitely unconvinced. "John apparently didn't think so," he answered. "What… er, what exactly happened to your head? There, I mean," he concluded, gesturing towards Sherlock's forehead.

Instinctively, he raised his hand towards the plaster and then pressed it against his temple. His headache was very persistent, unfortunately. "Didn't you listen?" he mumbled. "I told the doctor. Fell. Hit my head."

"Hit your head where?" Lestrade wanted to know.

Sherlock could not prevent a tired sigh. "'m not one of your suspects," he muttered, aware of how flat his voice sounded. "Didn't John tell you?"

Lestrade crossed his arms in front of his chest. "John wasn't exactly talkative. Said you had a kind of accident, that he didn't want to leave you alone for too long, asked if I could come over, and then told me rather many things you're not supposed to do."

Sherlock was Aware that his face had probably turned a slightly pink shade, blushing inevitably at the mentioning of… 'didn't want to leave you alone for too long'. "'m not a child," he murmured, distracting himself with fiddling with the IV line. How long was it to be in place? The needle was itching already, and…

"No disconnecting of the IV, he said, and no walking around," Lestrade interrupted his thoughts. "So, stop that."

Closing his eyes to try to block out the thumping in his head, Sherlock did. "Fine," he muttered, resting his aching head back. "Hit my head on the wash-bowl. Fell 'cause… was dizzy. Pleased now?"

He was sure he flinched when Lestrade answered after a few moments. "No. And maybe you should stop talking. You look as if you're about to pass out."

When Sherlock wrenched his eyes open, the room was spinning around him. Without any further protesting, he as carefully as possible slid further down, embracing the warmth of the covers. "'m fine," he slurred nonetheless.

"John told me that, too," Lestrade's voice reached him from an increasing distance. "You… er… you know you… just … sleep… don't… mind…"

x

The next thing Sherlock became aware of was that the mattress was moving. Or he was moving on the mattress.

"…rlock."

Moving. A grip on his shoulder. Shaking him.

"Sherl…"

No, he thought. Leave me in peace.

His eyes finally opened after another round of nauseating shaking and of the duvet being pulled down. He moaned and blinked into Lestrade's face, appearing… uncomfortable, his hand letting go of his shoulder immediately. "You're… awake," he stated stupidly.

Sherlock attempted to roll his eyes, half-open only. "Obvious…ly," he breathed, failing to stifle a yawn. "Why did you…"

Lestrade shifted on his heels, kneeling directly in front of Sherlock's face. "A nurse was here, told me you're due to a CT scan in thirty minutes." He hesitated for a bit. "It's routine, isn't it?"

CT scan. Again. Sherlock remembered the night after… before… the night he had hit his head. Remembered all those examinations and scans and tests. Goosebumps formed on his arms. CT scans. Lying in that… tube again, nothing above him but the ceiling trying to crush him, to shatter him, nurse chatting mindlessly, the cold everywhere, the questions, the prodding…

When Lestrade addressed him with a worried sounding "Sherlock?" and reached out for his shoulder again, Sherlock became aware that even Lestrade had realised that something was wrong.

"You OK? Shall I call someone? Shall I… er, call John?"

CT scan.

Clenching his hands into fists and trying to breathe deeply, thinking of John, Sherlock shook his head, just to prove he could, despite the spinning. "No," he lied. "It's fine."

x

It was stupid, Sherlock tried to tell himself on the way back, to be scared of something like that, something so completely harmless, but he could not help it. The CT scan had left him shaken, without sedation to get through the period of time being locked in a tube, without any knowledge if his brain was turning on him, if there was bleeding again, if he…

Emotion, he noticed distantly, emotion and sentiment were getting the better of him. Prone to sentiment, indeed, as he had told John. Or, as John had put it, the shock talking.

As Lestrade pushed the wheelchair downs the narrow corridors, Sherlock felt frustration well up inside him. The same corridors, the same people, the same examinations. It made him _sick_. Sick. Especially without John.

Closing his eyes and imagining to be somewhere else was all he could do.

x

He wasn't woken by the voices, they rather found their way into his dream.

Voices he knew, Lestrade, of course, still here, Mary, and John.

"…been asleep ever since you left," Lestrade was saying at the moment. "Didn't expect you to be back so early, by the way."

"Well, er…," John's voice began.

"He couldn't sleep," Mary interrupted him. "So we decided we could as well keep you company."

There was a brief pause before John spoke up once more: "They did another scan, you said?"

No words, so Lestrade had to have nodded.

Even in his half-stupor, too drowsy to wake up properly, Sherlock could hear the tension in John's voice when he went on: "And? Was it… OK?"

Was it OK. Even Sherlock did not know the answer. Automatically, he held his breath.

"Sherlock?" John asked, worry in his voice, resting a hand on his.

Exhale, his brain commanded. Then inhale. He did.

"All fine, the doctor said," Lestrade answered John. "You know, I didn't understand half of what she was talking about, but… he seems to be fine."

Sherlock could hear John let out a huff. "Good, er… that's good," he mumbled, and his hand disappeared again.

It was interesting to listen, to listen to them talking about him, Sherlock had to admit, and it was also a relief that he was OK. Or that he would. Suddenly, his body appeared far more relaxed and prone to sleep. Sleep…

"…gave me quite a scare when you called…," Lestrade's voice. "…looks worse than when he was on drugs… normal… sleeping?"

And John, answering: "Yeah. … exhausted… long night…"

The smell of Mary's perfume.

"…tried to wake him… limp and… be alright?" Lestrade again.

And finally, John's answer. Positive. Giving Sherlock hope. And prompting him to give in to sleep.

x

When Sherlock woke again in the evening, he found, to his surprise, that he was hungry. Hungry.

Lestrade was still here, snoring in one of the chairs, as well as Mary and John.

"Evening," he said in a raspy voice and suddenly realised how dry his throat was.

Mary directed a smile at him, and even John's frown lines seemed to lighten a tiny bit. "Hey, Sherlock," he said. "Slept enough?"

"Mh," he mumbled, rubbing his temple. It still hurt. Fascinating, wasn't it? "What 'bout you?"

Mary chuckled.

John's smile was genuine, Sherlock could tell. "I'm still tired, but it's OK." Then his face grew serious once more. "Do you need anything?"

Sherlock curved his lips into a smile and nodded. "Dinner?"

x

By the time he had eaten half of the pasta John had retrieved for him from the cafeteria, Lestrade had woken up, John was watching him in wonder and Mary with a knowing look on her face. Sherlock himself felt like falling asleep right away again and… and, oddly enough, close to comfortable.

He only noticed that his eyelids had started drooping - and that his body was betraying him once more - when John took the plate and the fork from his limp hands and Lestrade announced to be off.

"See you soon, Sherlock," were his words before closing the door behind him, and Sherlock found himself nodding, although only Mary and John could see him now.

For a moment, a tiny bit of awkward silence spread in the room.

Finally, Mary got up, still smiling. "I'll take back the plate," she announced, and, grabbing it from John, left, too.

Now, with John alone in one room, for the first time since… since he had lost control, Sherlock did not know what to do.

"I…," he began awkwardly, clearing his throat.

There was a firm grip on his hands once more, John's hands around his, John providing warmth and safety.

"Yes," was all he said.

Sherlock raised his gaze to meet John's, and he understood. Or wanted to understand. "You…," he muttered, cutting himself off.

"Yes," John repeated, a smile spreading on his face.

For a moment, the dizziness returned, sending everything blurring around him. It felt… good.

"Home?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

John blinked heavily, as if to shove tears away. "Home, you idiot," he mumbled while he pulled Sherlock into another bone-crushing embrace.

* * *

Thank you for reading. As always, I'm looking forward to your comments.


	32. Chapter 31

You are so very loyal, putting up with my writing for so long. Thank you.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

31

* * *

"You've told him?" Mary asked John in the cab they took back to their flat.

He nodded, curling his hand around her. "I…," he began.

Mary only smiled. "Don't do that now," she whispered. "It is the right decision. He wants to leave hospital, and if it's his wish, then it will help him. It's the right decision."

John could only hope that she was right, that it would not be too early. That it would do Sherlock good and no harm.

x

He slept poorly this night.

He saw Sherlock, Sherlock suffering another seizure, Sherlock worsening as soon as he was out of hospital, developing an infection and another one and a third one… until John did not see any other possibilty than to admit him again, hoping, praying. Praying.

It did not help, however, because in his dream, Sherlock died, for real this time, died and simply stopped… three days later. Although John was distantly aware it was a dream, nothing more, panic seized his heart nonetheless, panic why he was having such a dream, why now, if Sherlock was alright…

He did not wake up, simply didn't, not even when he was attending the funeral, when he was staring at his best friend's pale and still face, slack and motionless, and the tie around his neck. Ties. Sherlock was not supposed to wear ties, John noticed, wasn't supposed…

"Sherlock!"

Even his own scream did not wake him, and for a split-second, just a terrifying split-second, John wondered if - maybe - this was real.

Real.

"SHERLOCK!"

"JOHN!"

It was Mary, lying by his side, who held him and shook him, and finally, with a last panicked gasp, John's eyes shot open, projecting the image of Sherlock in a coffin into their dark bedroom.

"John…," she whispered, stroking his sweat soaked hair.

Nightmare. Nightmare. Again.

"Mary," John panted. "'m sorry. Sorry. It's OK. Dream."

She nudged him in the ribs. "I know it was a dream," she whispered, still caressing him. "Your first scream woke _me_, after all."

Her warmth disappeared all of sudden when she left, the cold reminding John painfully of the images and of his body covered in cold sweat.

Sitting down on the bed, Mary handed him a glass of water and grabbed his hand while he was drinking,

"Better?" she wanted to know.

John managed a curt nod.

Mary took the empty glass from him and curled up against his side. "Sherlock?" she whispered.

John only nodded again.

He flinched when Mary spoke up once more. "Do you want me to call hospital?"

To check if Sherlock was OK, _that _he was OK, to hear his voice… and to wake him, in the middle of the night, at two o'clock. "No," he choked out. "Fine."

x

Then the second nightmare in this night happened, and after John had been shaken awake by Mary for the second time, she did not hesitate any longer, but picked up her mobile and dialled.

A few minutes later, she handed it to John, who was greeted by a familiar, so very familiar voice.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled sleepily. "Wha's wrong?"

John let out a breath he had not been aware that he had been holding. "Nothing," he choked out. "It's all fine."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "You had another nightmare," he then remarked.

John's hand was still trembling, he realised disconcertedly. "Yes," he confirmed.

"About me."

"Yes."

"And you…"

"Yes."

Again, Sherlock fell silent.

"Listen, I'm sorry I woke you because of this stupid…," John began, but was cut off by his best friend. "No, it's… fine. It's… I… you're welcome."

When John ended the call and fell asleep again, he did so with a smile on his face.

x

Had John known how difficult the days until Sherlock's final discharge would be, had he known how many more examinations his friend would have to go through, how much therapy - maybe he would have changed his mind.

Sherlock agreed, to John's surprise, to speech therapy, additional to the physical exercising he was doing, and after the first session, he complained about its stupidity and uselessness, muttering: "How will… slurring… 'lalalala' help me?"

John decided to ignore him in this matter, figuring that explaining to him that it only had been his first session, that of course they had needed to find out how incapacitated his speech really was, would be of no use, and instead focused on the CT scans some doctor had given to him.

Two more CT scans were done in the course of this week, the first one leaving Sherlock utterly shaken, to John's horror, and the second including sedation, according to Sherlock's explicit wish.

John knew Sherlock did not exactly like being oblivious and unconscious - nor did he himself -, did not like being sedated, but suffering a second anxiety attack in the tube was not beneficial, either, so John did not protest.

As most of the times since he had woken up from his coma, Sherlock's body did not take the anaesthetic well, the sedation leaving him miserable and nauseous and weak for the rest of the afternoon. Without a large round of throwing up, to John's immense relief.

The scans themselves were fine. Fine. John could not really believe it, could not believe that there should be no visible cause for Sherlock's headache or his still occurring dizziness, or for his previous seizures - which had, thank God, not happened again.

"Then what is wrong with him?" he demanded in front of the doctor when an MRI scan and an EEG came back alright, too.

"After-effects of craniotomy…," he was told. "Likely to subside… will pass… nothing serious…"

Unfortunately, it did feel serious to John.

"Leave it," even Sherlock said. "It's OK, I can cope with it."

John only shook his head and continued pacing in Sherlock's room. "No, it's not OK! And _I_ can't cope with the fact that I never know when you're going to faint or throw up because of your head!"

After that, Sherlock was silent.

x

No matter what, Sherlock insisted on walking everywhere now, on attempting to walk, besides therapy, crutches or John supporting his balance. John could not exactly say that he was pleased with Sherlock's idea when he watched what little colour had been there drain from Sherlock's face, but surprisingly enough, to John's astonishment, it went well, and he did in fact improve, improved enough to be able to walk to the cafeteria without stopping and without near-collapsing into a chair afterwards.

It was still painful, and exhausting, John could easily see that, but he also knew that one day, if he ever wanted to live a normal life again, Sherlock would have to start working hard. And he did.

He always slept through the nights now, too knackered to stay awake, even when he had a headache.

John didn't know _how _exactly it was possible, but two days after he had first mentioned the possibility of discharge in a conversation with one of the doctors, leaving hospital not only was a future prospect, but a certainty rather, the only question being: when. He strongly suspected - and Sherlock agreed with him - that this was partly Mycroft's doing, but it was… fine.

"Have you… told… Mrs Hudson yet?" Sherlock once asked rather breathlessly while clutching his crutches.

John, his eyes fixed on each of Sherlock's movements, shook his head. "Mary'll talk to her," he answered. "When she's getting your clothes."

Sherlock stopped. "Getting my…" For a moment, he looked confused. "Oh."

Oh. For a moment, John felt a pang of guilt for not telling Sherlock explicitly before. "You'll need help, Sherlock, in the first time, and… no, don't try to argue with me. You know it's true. And even if it wasn't, I wouldn't let you live alone right away."

Slowly, Sherlock resumed his walking. "And so you've… decided it's… easier if I move… in with you than… the other way… round."

John nodded and followed his friend. "Yes."

Sherlock's face did not betray anything. "Tell… Mary to bring my violin… too."

Closing his eyes for a short moment, John smiled.

x

Friday, they were told eventually, Friday should be the day of Sherlock's discharge.

On Friday morning, Sherlock's room was overflowing with visitors, Mrs Hudson, cheerful and worried at the same time, Greg, beaming, Molly, who had stopped by before work, Mycroft, neat and proper as always, Mary, sitting quietly in a chair and smiling, and of course John.

While Mrs Hudson kept chatting, Greg and Molly were engaged in a conversation about something and Mycroft studied John for no apparent reason which John tried to ignore, he found himself seizing the opportunity to scan Sherlock once more.

The bruising around his eye was still visible, greenish now, the plaster to his temple had been renewed this morning, after the stitches had been pulled, his hair was still too short, especially on the left side of his skill, barely covering the scar from craniotomy, but, funnily enough, already curling a tiny bit.

He appeared tense, and, after those past weeks, John could tell that the amount of people around him made him uncomfortable, made him feel uneasy.

But just when John attempted to open his mouth to politely beg them to leave for today, he caught Sherlock's gaze and a barely perceivable headshake. No, then. After a questioning look and another headshake, John let it be.

One final examination, he realised, this afternoon, and then… and then home.

Mary's and his flat.

Home.

Finally, after so many long weeks. After not knowing whether Sherlock would ever be able to leave the hospital.

Home.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	33. Chapter 32

Thank you all so much. I hope I will be able to answer all of your remaining questions in what is still to come.

And now... Going home. Finally, eh?

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

32

* * *

Final examination, John had said. Examinations, rather.

Sherlock had already been tired when John had slowly accompanied him to the doctor, and now, he was… drained. Shattered. Fatigued, to put it eloquently.

How many more things was that man going to ask, going to do, going to test, he wondered dully. And everything with John waiting outside.

He had been answering questions, had been walking, had had the scar on his scalp inspected, had had blood samples drawn, the wound on his forehead inspected, several plasters changed, had answered more questions, had been examined thorougly, including an ultra sound scan, an EEG as well as ECG, had been touched by the man's sticky fingers multiple times, probing his skull and his forehead and his abdomen, had been helped by a nurse to remove his T-shirt and to put it back on again, had to step onto scales, the nurse noting down his weight with a displeased look on her face, had coughed when the doctors had told him to, had had a cold stethoscope pressed to his upper body and a light shone into his eyes. Now he was shivering, barely managing to suppress a yawn, and wanted nothing more than to leave, to leave this all behind, to get up and walk away and never come back.

Patience, a voice that sounded suspiciously like John's reminded him. Patience. Not long now.

"Well, Mr Holmes…," one of the doctors began slowly while all Sherlock could think in spite of his exhaustion was: married, bound to get a divorce, divorce, divorce…

He flinched when the door closed - he had not even noticed that it had been opened - and John came in, striding towards him, limping slightly, his face tense and his hands balled into fists. Had been sitting a long time, then, outside, waiting… Worried.

Stop, Sherlock thought, dimly becoming aware of his accelerating breathing.

"You OK?" John mouthed quietly, and Sherlock managed a nod as John took a seat in the chair next to Sherlock's.

Talking. A lot of talking, Sherlock realised. And then he could go home. To John and Mary's, at least. Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, he attempted not to fall asleep.

x

"I don't like it," John muttered while they were walking back to Sherlock's room. His soon to be _former _room.

Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding and concentrated on his legs. On his shaking legs. "You… heard them," he muttered.

Heard them, the doctors. Examining, scanning him. Again. Over and over again. Discharge, yes. But it would not be over, seeing a doctor, needing help, being weak and sleepy and… not yet.

The bag of prescription medication John was carrying for Sherlock was proof of that. Medication he needed to keep his transport functioning, to keep it working. Weak.

"Yes," John confirmed, waving wildly with the bag and almost spilling its contents. "Yes, I heard them. I heard that they claim you're perfectly healthy when I can see even without examining you that you're not. Sherlock, your blood pressure…"

"Out of every… thing, you remem… ber my blood… pressure?" he muttered.

As if to emphasise John's words, Sherlock felt dizzy for a moment, dizzy enough to stop and hold his breath.

John's hand had appeared on his arm when he could see clearly again, steadying him. "See what I mean?" he asked darkly.

Sherlock chose not to respond but to start walking again. "After-effects," he mumbled. "Traumatic brain injury. Common."

John caught up with him. "Yes, but not that strongly, and not that long. Your blood pressure was down to 85 over 55 this morning, and still low at 96 over 72 a few minutes ago. Children tend to have a blood pressure so low, not you, Sherlock. It's not normal."

Not normal. Nothing felt normal, yes, and yet, Sherlock couldn't do anything against that. Neither could John.

"I am fine," he said, and it turned out a tiny bit sharper than he had intended. He stopped. John walked on.

Stupid. Mycroft's words echoed in his head again. Do not…

"John!" he called. "John! I'm…"

Stupid. So stupid. Pushing John away. Not going to happen. More hastily than before, he scrambled forward, tried to hurry. "…sorry," he choked out, breathless.

John froze and slowly, very slowly, turned around. "Fine," he said.

Sherlock closed his eyes and, for a moment, felt the dizziness creep back, as well as embarrassment, shame. Fear. No. Not now. "…know you… worry 'bout me…," he slurred. "I… it's… I know…"

"See what I mean?" John's voice reached him from directly in front of him, and when Sherlock opened his eyes, John was there.

For a second, John's eyes bored into his before John blinked and sighed. "I'm your friend, you know."

Sherlock attempted a smile and another step towards his room, towards the bed. "I know."

x

When John woke him from his nap, his unintentional nap, Sherlock needed a few minutes to fully come round and to clear his vision.

"'s't time?" he slurred, slowly becoming aware of the silhouettes around the bed. Mary. Mrs Hudson.

John's smile, he could easily see that, appeared forced. Forced. Deduce, Sherlock, deduce. Think. Worried. Concerned. Afraid.

"Don'…," he began, cutting himself off, feeling silly.

John stared at him for a second before his lips started to quiver. "Don't what? Don't worry? How could I not?"

Sherlock joined in in John's grin. "Always," he whispered hoarsely.

John hesitated a moment, a moment in which he searched for Sherlock's hand, staring darkly at the plaster taped to its back. "Ready to leave?" he wanted to know.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock's grin deepened. "Ready when you are," he mumbled.

x

It was surprisingly difficult to get up with Mrs Hudson fussing about him and with his legs still feeling unsteady.

"Clothes…," he finally murmured, keeping a firm hold on John's arm. "I need… can't… where?"

It was Mary who answered: "We thought you'd say that," she replied. "That is why Mrs Hudson and I have been to 221B and retrieved some of your clothes for you."

Picking up a bag from the floor, she smiled at him while Mrs Hudson patted his shoulder and was clinging to his other arm.

For a second, Sherlock feared that his legs would simply give out on him. "That's…," he began, clutching John even more firmly. "Thank… you."

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson chirped and continued her patting. "You'll be fine now, and when you're home, I'll make you your favourtite food and…"

Sherlock only nodded.

"Bathroom?" John wanted to know, taking the bag from Mary.

Bathroom. "I can change…," Sherlock began, but was cut off by John. "Yes, absolutely. I'm coming nonetheless."

x

Sherlock did not exactly like it, but, truth to be told, it was necessary that John was here. He managed to struggle his way out of his T-shirt, sitting on the toilet seat, and into a new white shirt, but had trouble with buttoning it, his fingers trembling.

With an exasperated sigh, he let his head loll back and John do it.

Trousers were even more difficult, and Sherlock knew, without John's help, without his steadying presence and after a long and tiring day, he would not have succeeded, would probably have ended up on the floor, half-way out of his pyjama trousers.

"Lean on me," John told him while Sherlock tried to pull on the pair Mary had brought for him. "I said, lean on me."

Finally, finally, they succeeded, and John was kind enough to fasten them around Sherlock's hip.

"Didn'… Mary… look up my… size," he panted, blinking heavily, as he stared at the trousers being much too large for him.

John grimly shook his head. "That's one of your old pairs, Sherlock. _You _lost weight."

Lost weight. For a moment, Sherlock was stunned and, he assumed, paling, going by John's temporarily terrified look and the tightening of his grip. "Lost…," he whispered, trying to process the information. He didn't want to ask, didn't want to show his surprise, but the words came out nonetheless, smaller than he had intended them to. "So… so much?"

This time, John nodded, equally grimly. "Yes," he confirmed, and for a second, Sherlock wondered if John was going to pull him into an embrace. Maybe it was good that he already was sitting down, because otherwise, he wouldn't have been too sure if he had been able to maintain his balance in this moment.

"Oh," he simply mouthed.

John nodded for a second time. "Yes, oh."

A second of silence passed. "You OK?" John then wanted to know. "Today must have been exhausting, and I saw the plaster on your arm where the doctor draw the blood samples… Dizzy? Anything?"

Still confusingly dazed, Sherlock attempted a headshake. "No…," he mumbled. Weight. Lost weight. So much. With a sudden and shocking clarity realisation hit him that, being weakened as it was, it came as no surprise that his tranport was no longer reliable.

"Sherlock?"

Focusing on John's voice, he returned to reality. Shirt, trousers, socks. "Do I… have shoes?" he asked, feeling stupid.

Slowly and rather clumsily, he tied one shoe's laces himself, letting John take care of the other one.

Finally, he worked his arms into his jacket, aware of the sore spot near the crook of his elbow where the doctor had indeed drawn the blood. Too large, too, he realised belatedly, as was his shirt. Fascinating. And… scaring.

"We'll go back to your room, and I will get you something to eat - which you will eat -, and then we're ready to leave."

Allowing John to softly pull him to his feet, he nodded distractedly. "Aren't there… formali… ties?" he wanted to know. "Paper… work?"

John opened the bathroom door. "Mycroft has taken care of everything," he explained.

x

John left to get something to eat as soon as he had seated Sherlock on the bed, once more fussed about by Mrs Hudson.

"You look charming, dear," she told him. "Too thin, but Mary and I are going to fix that, aren't we?" She tutted softly. "One can't expect you to sustain a healthy weight on hospital food."

All of a sudden, she threw her arms around his neck so violently she would almost have pushed him off the bed. "I'm so glad you're finally better, dear," she sobbed, and Sherlock did not know what to respond. "Thank… you," he eventually settled on, completely caught off guard when she continued sobbing. "Oh, Sherlock…"

"Mrs Hudson," he replied, utterly clueless. Resting one of his arms around her shoulders, steadying himself with the other one, he finally attempted to soothe her. "It's, er… it's alright, Mrs Hudson. Alright."

"Yes," she choked out. "Yes, alright." Loosening her grip around him, she got up and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm… sorry, I just…"

Sherlock still didn't know what to do when she left the room, continuing her crying.

"I…," he began, shooting Mary a glance.

"You had her worried, you know," she said, blinking rapidly herself.

Once more, Sherlock found himself bereft of words. "I…," he muttered again.

Mary got up from her chair and came to sit next to him instead, without any physical contact, unlike Mrs Hudson. "Tell me the truth," she demanded. "I know you always put up a brave face for John, but you can tell me. I promise I won't say anything to him. How are you really feeling?"

Put up a brave face… "I don't…," he mumbled, then stopped. Did he? Maybe. Because John deserved better than to worry all the time. Deserved better. "Why would you care?" he wanted to know, not understanding.

Mary simply stared at him, seriously. "Because I _do_," she answered. "Because you're _my _friend, too."

Sherlock's tongue seemed too heavy to move when he swallowed dryly, dryly, and finally opened his mouth to say something.

x

Before he had finished the risotto-like thing John had brought, before he had even eaten half of it, Lestrade stormed into the room, grinning widely as soon as he noticed Sherlock. "Ready to leave?" he asked.

"Perfectly," Sherlock mumbled, dipping the fork into the food.

John was too busy trying to get Lestrade's attention to notice it and scold him for it.

"There are two or three journalists outside," Lestrade told John once he had succeeded in having his attention.

Sherlock noticed John flinch and realised he was startled enough to not even notice that Sherlock put his plate away. Mary shot him a stern look, but Sherlock decided to ignore it.

"Still?" John wanted to know, and when Lestrade nodded, Sherlock suddenly realised how much had to have happened outside, that the world outside had gone on, throughout all the time he had spent inside here, in this hospital. The thought made his vision swim for a moment.

"Has Mycroft sent a car yet?" John asked next, and, as abruptly as before, Sherlock began to wonder how precisely they had been planning his discharge.

When Lestrade shook his head, John sighed. "Well then," he mumbled, not looking at Sherlock. "We're ready, then, I think."

Sudden relief overwhelming him, Sherlock nodded whole-heartedly.

x

He was already standing, on wobbly legs, when suddenly another bag appeared from somewhere and Mary handed him, smiling widely, his familiar blue scarf and his coat. His coat. The woollen fabric beneath his fingertips… It almost felt too good to be real.

But of course, John had to insist on a jumper, helping Sherlock to pull it over his head, saying: "It's cold outside, Sherlock, and it's late already. You need to be warm."

Putting his scarf around his neck was something he had not done in… had not done in a very long time, and it… it was… good.

"Thank you," he told Mary quietly when she returned, having fetched a wheelchair.

"Ready?" John asked him, his voice worried, as soon as he had put on his coat, the coat Mary had retrieved from God knew where. What happened normally to the clothes of people being admitted to a hospital? Sherlock didn't know.

"Yes," he replied, allowing John to support him to the wheelchair, assisting him until he was sitting down. Hospital protocol, he had been informed earlier that day.

John stared at him for a moment, stared at his throat, rather, and turned, as Sherlock noticed with worry, a shade paler before reaching out and turning his collar up.

"Better," he mumbled and gripped the handles of the wheelchair.

Sherlock closed his eyes while Lestrade was carrying the travelling bag containing his clothes and Mary and Mrs Hudson left the room already. John. He knew what John had believed to see, the expression on his face betraying him. Or he thought he knew. John had remembered, had remembered the blood colouring his skin and coat and the sidewalk, had remembered the night of his… accident.

And had done what Sherlock had used to do, what John had, a tiny bit annoyed, called "mysterious" and "cool" once. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock's brain would not stop thinking, John had turned his collar up because it made him look like himself again, like the man he had used to be.

"John?" he mumbled, quietly enough for nobody else to hear. "Thank you."

* * *

Thank you for reading.

So - what did you think? I'm curious.


	34. Chapter 33

Oh dear God, thank you all. Still and always.

Enjoy.

* * *

Not Meant to Be

33

* * *

Sherlock insisted on getting up, despite his shaking and his apparent headache, as soon as they had reached the entrance, and even refused the crutches. John decided not to let him out of eyesight.

"You'll take Mrs Hudson home?" John asked Lestrade, who nodded.

The old lady hugged Sherlock again, once more tears in her eyes, and once more the vehemence of her embrace, as John could clearly see, almost knocked him off his feet. She whispered something, sobbing at the same time, but it was too quiet for John to understand.

Greg, having handed the bag to Mary, appeared for a moment as if he was about to formally shake Sherlock's hand, but then decided otherwise, awkwardly patting his shoulder instead. "I'll call you, alright?" he said to Sherlock, grinning, before staring at John for a moment. "Call me if you need anything."

He heard Sherlock take a deep breath when the hospital doors opened and Mrs Hudson and Greg left.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, his face white, but he seemed… fine. Not really, but… it had been a good decision, John realised, of Mary to bring his coat, to give it back to him. And although John could not get rid of the memory of the blood stain on the collar, Sherlock's blood, drenching his beloved coat, even colouring his scarf, it was…

"John?" Mary's voice reached him, but he did not react. Blood. Blood seeping from Sherlock's head, his nose, his ears… No.

Shaking his head vehemently, he attempted a smile. "Fine," he mumbled, returning his gaze to his best friend, and, for a second, felt the sudden urge to grin.

Sherlock looked ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. His trousers, his shirt, his shoes, yes, all of it dangling around his emaciated frame, combined with John's jumper and Sherlock's own scarf and coat.

Ridiculous, and at the same time John felt the familiar pang of worry in his heart. Better to settle on _ridiculous_, he decided, because the alternative was… _sick_.

"Do we have a cap or anything…," he mumbled, looking at Mary. "I don't want him to catch anything."

Mary shook her head, simultaneously with Sherlock opening his eyes. "I'm here, …too, in case you… haven't noticed," he muttered, rubbing his shaky hand over his forehead.

John ignored him.

Nonetheless, he appeared positively exasperated when John insisted on buttoning the coat. "It's cold," John tried to defend himself.

Sherlock barely let out a breath. "I'm not… going to… to fall over with the first… breeze," he mumbled flatly, his exhaustion showing in his face, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

John nodded curtly. "Wouldn't let you," he replied darkly. "You're sure about walking?"

Sherlock gave a tiny nod. "Absolutely," he whispered.

For a moment, everybody was silent.

"What are… we waitin' for," Sherlock finally mumbled, blinking.

John was just about to open his mouth when Mary nudged him, poiting towards Mycroft, entering. "John. Mrs Watson. Brother dear." Tipping his umbrella on the floor, his face portrayed a perfectly composed smile. "The car is ready."

Mary grimaced at John without Mycroft noticing and John barely had the chance to fight back a chuckle.

Sherlock was the one to interrupt the tense silence. "Can we leave, then," he muttered wearily.

"There is an unexpected amount of journalists outside," Mycroft remarked, playfully twisting his umbrella around.

Sherlock made a step forward. "So what," he muttered. "Can we just… leave?"

Exchanging a quick glance with Mary, John nodded. "Alright then. Let's go."

The relief in Sherlock's tired sigh was unmistakable.

x

John did his best to shield Sherlock from the journalists, from the photographers waiting outside, from the people shouldn't be here at all, of whom John did not understand why they were here, from the questions being fired at them, shield him with his body and with his raised arm, his other arm supporting his best friend.

And yet, the few steps to the car Mycroft had thankfully sent for them seemed to take ages, seemed to consist of miles.

"What happened?"

"Why…"

"Who did this…"

"How come…"

Quickly, but nonetheless carefully, John ushered Sherlock inside, climbed in the car after his best friend, Mycroft closing the door and walking towards the passenger seat, while Mary gave the travelling bag to the driver and then followed.

"Should've brought… the hat," Sherlock mumbled, his head tipping to his right side, in his customary coat and his baggy clothes, his skin competing with the colour of his shirt.

For a moment, John was lacking words, then both he and Sherlock flinched as the door was closed by the driver, rather loudly, and finally, the car started moving.

It felt weird, sitting in a car, Sherlock sandwiched between him and Mary, Mycroft in the passenger seat, it felt… John would have loved to say something, anything, to disrupt the silence, to ask if Sherlock was alright, to chat with Mary, but could not think of anything. Not with the driver here, not with Mycroft, silent as a statue. And, as he realised belatedly, not with Sherlock, his eyes closed, breathing evenly.

Mary simply smiled at him.

x

It seemed to take longer than usual until the car pulled up in front of their flat.

"We are here," Mycroft stated, unnecessarily.

Mary cleared her throat, exchanging another glance with John in the dimly lit car. "I'll get the bag, shall I?" she asked and got up, opening the door.

Slowly, John extended a hand towards Sherlock's shoulder, a perfectly steady hand. "Sherlock," he whispered, almost too quietly. "Sherlock, wake up."

Wake up. Again.

"John," Sherlock mumbled without opening his eyes. "…here?"

"Yes," John simply answered, attempting to unfasten Sherlock's seat belt. "Can you get up?"

"'course," was the almost immediate reply. "Wasn' really asleep…"

John tried to hide his smile. "Yeah, thought so," he muttered under his breath and grabbed Sherlock's right arm, carefully guiding him out of the car. Tired, of course, and exhausted, and still recovering. "Come on now," he encouraged his best friend. "Let's get you inside."

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft addressed him again, causing him to turn his head. "I trust you will continue to take good care of my brother?"

To John's surprise, it was Sherlock who answered, who answered before he himself had even had the chance to open his mouth.

"Seriously, Myc… roft," he mumbled. "You're getting… slow. Try to… think next time… will you?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and for a moment, John thought to notice a pleased smile on his barely illuminated features. "Very well," he said. "Good night, then."

x

"I'm not sleepin' in your bed," was the next thing Sherlock said, seated on the edge of precisely that bed, glaring daggers at John and Mary.

For a moment, John didn't know what to reply whereas Mary simply chuckled. "I'm flattered, Sherlock," she told him.

"Sherlock…," John began, biting back a sigh.

His best friend simply shook his head, pressing his eyes shut. "No," he said. "I'm not."

John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Well," he answered, carefully composed. "Where else do you want to sleep, then?"

Sherlock tried - and failed - to stifle a yawn. "Sofa," he mumbled.

John snorted. "Sofa? Sherlock, I'm not letting you sleep on the sofa, not with your head injury and your concussion and…"

"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his eyes, probably without even noticing it. "The sofa won'…"

"John, let him sleep there," Mary interrupted him. "If he wants to."

For a moment, John thought he had misheard her words. "What!" he exclaimed. "Mary, that's…"

"You stay here," Mary told Sherlock whose eyes shot open at once. "I'll prepare the sofa for you, and you're going to sleep there, OK?"

Grinning faintly, Sherlock nodded.

"Come on, John," Mary encouraged him. "Would you please help me?"

"Mary…," he tried to protest, noticing how Sherlock slumped a tiny bit.

"John," his wife replied and took his hand, almost pulling him out of the room.

"What…," he began as soon as she had closed the door, but she silenced him with a kiss. "Don't worry," she mumbled. "Go back in in five minutes, and he'll be asleep. He won't even notice it."

Once more, John couldn't believe it. "Why didn't I think of that?" he mumbled. "Mary, you're…"

"I know," she replied with a grin. "I'll get you a pillow. I'm afraid that you'll have to sleep on the sofa tonight."

x

Mary had been right, John found out as he entered their bedroom not even five minutes later, only to discover that Sherlock had indeed nodded off, snoring softly. Mary followed seconds later, smiling. "You see?" she said. "Although I have to admit that it's weird to have Sherlock sleep in our bed."

John simply watched his sleeping best friend for a few seconds before he felt Mary's hand in his. "Yes," he confirmed, feeling a smile tuck on his lips. "Yes, it is. And yet… it's… it's fine."

"I know," she whispered into his ear, only to make two steps forward directly afterwards. "Shouldn't we… make sure he's comfortable, elevate his head and cover him with a blanket?" she wanted to know.

John needed a moment to swallow back the lump in his throat, to blink his eyes dry. "Yes," he croaked. "Yes, we should."

He had said 'we', but somehow, he could only stand there and watch as Mary carefully managed to stuff another two pillows behind Sherlock's back and head, as she rested his left arm more neatly against his body, as she spread her duvet and an additional blanket over him. "He won't be too happy about sleeping in his clothes," she whispered, softly tracing her fingers over the barely concealed scar on his scalp.

Blinking did not help any more. "Mary," he mumbled, too choked to produce a louder noise.

She turned her head, leaving her fingertips on Sherlock's head. "Hm?" she made.

For a heartbeat, John did not know what to say. How to express his relief, his happiness, his worry, his love, his gratefulness, his hopefulness. How to express anything. "Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.

When he reopened them, Mary was standing in front of him, looking at him, studying him. "He'll be alright, you know," she mumbled softly.

Alright. John simply nodded. "I know. I know."

She kissed him tenderly. "I'll be waiting for you on the sofa," she told him and then, after a reassuring smile, exited the room.

For a few minutes, John simply stood there, in his own bedroom, watching his best friend slumber peacefully in his and his wife's bed. Alright, Mary had said. Alright.

"Thank _you_, too," he murmured, bending down to Sherlock. "Thank you."

Alright. In his eyes, Sherlock looked still so… so vulnerable, so weary, so exhausted. It would never be the same, their relationship, it could not, not after what they had gone through. John doubted he would ever be able to stop worrying about Sherlock now - if he ever had been -, would ever be able to forget the images burnt into his head, into his eyes, would ever be able to feel anything else but the deepest gratitude for him still being there when he looked at Sherlock, for his best friend still being alive.

Alive. And alright.

Pressing an almost hasty kiss to Sherlock's left temple, he got up, rubbed his watery eyes, and muttered another hoarse "Thank you, Sherlock."

x

Minutes later, he was snuggled close to Mary on the sofa - or the other way round -, breathing in her scent.

Alright. Everything would be alright. Finally. "Thank you," he repeated.

Mary rested her templed against his chin.

"I love you so much, you know," he whispered, his voice still hoarse, his throat still raw.

"I know," she replied gently.

For the first time in ages, John felt completely relaxed. Completely, being optimistic, being hopeful that everything would indeed be fine.

Until Mary disrupted his thoughts, turning her head a little and looking right into his eyes. "John," she muttered quietly. "There's something I need to tell you."

* * *

Because I adore Mycroft. And bromance. I'm not sorry.

One more chapter to go, by the way. And I'm pretty sure there was something else I wanted to say, but... being me, I forgot, only seconds before actually writing it. Well then.

And now the more important things... Thank you for reading so far. Really.


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